IvIBRARY 

OF  THE 

University  of  California. 

Mrs.  SARAH  P.  WALSWORTH, 

Received  October,  1894. 
^Accessions  No.  5^/32.  •      Clems  No. 

1 

' 

^^■ 


X..        ^^ 


V.c  <•/    C?-"^^-^^ 


Y  *>-K-^A-^?^  .    O  i 


WRITINGS 


EEV.  WILLIAM  BRADFORD  HOMER, 

V 


LATE   PASTOR  OF   THE 


CONGREGATIONAL  CHURCH  IN  SOUTH  BERWICK,  ME. 


AN  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY  AND  A  MEMOIR 

BY 

EDWARDS    A.    PARK, 

I-ROFESSOR    IN    ATSfDOTBR   THEOI.OGICAL    SEMINAUr 


SECOND    EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

PRESS  OF  T.  R.  MARVIN,  24  CONGRESS  STREET. 
1849. 


ATZjlJiJL^ 

Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1 849, 

By  T.  R.  Marvin, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


PREFACE. 


Soon  after  the  subject  of  the  following  Memoir  had  been 
called  from  life,  his  friends  expressed  a  unanimous  desire  that 
some  of  the  fruits  of  his  scholarship  should  be  given  to  the 
public.  The  parish  over  which  he  had  been  ordained,  and  the 
Association  of  ministers  with  which  he  had  been  connected, 
testified  their  regard  to  his  memory  by  formally  requesting  his 
sermons  for  the  press.  Candidates  for  the  sacred  office  and 
clergymen  who  had  but  recently  commenced  their  labors  were 
especially  earnest  for  the  publication  of  his  essays  and  dis- 
courses. It  was  often  said  that  the  writings  of  a  young  man 
are  peculiarly  attractive  to  scholars  of  his  own  age,  that  his 
excellence,  whatever  it  be,  engages  more  of  their  sympathetic 
interest  and  is  therefore  more  readily  imitated,  than  the  excel- 
lence of  a  writer  who  is  further  removed  from  them  in  age  and 
cultivation.  There  is  sometimes  an  approach  to  perfectness  in 
a  model  which  discourages  all  attempts  to  equal  it,  and  men 
are  often  less  benefited  by  such  a  copy  than  by  one  which  is 
less  highly  finished.  Man  has  a  tendency  to  imitation  which 
cannot  be  entirely  repressed.  Whenever  he  may  properly  in- 
dulge it,  he  should  look  not  merely  for  standards  which  are 
free  from  fault,  but  also  for  such  as  are  imitabky  and  such  as 


IV  PREFACE. 

afford  incentives  to  original  exertion.  It  is  not  claimed  that 
the  writings  of  Mr.  Homer  furnish  a  model  for  the  imitation  of 
all,  but  it  is  thought  that  they  exhibit  some  good  qualities 
which  are  seldom  found  in  the  pulpit,  and  that  they  may  stim- 
ulate the  youthful  preacher  to  attain  those  varied  excellences 
which  are  called  for  by  the  various  wants  of  the  community. 
They  show  that  in  the  esteem  of  a  Christian  scholar  there  is 
no  human  composition  so  important  or  so  dignified  as  a  ser- 
mon, if  it  be  a  true  sermon,  and  not  in  the  words  of  Bishop 
Andrews  ^^  called  so  by  a  charitable  construction ; "  that  the 
pulpit  is  not  only  the  "  preacher's  throne,"  but  is  raised  far 
above  any  other  station  on  earth,  and  that  all  attainments  in 
ancient  or  modern  literature  may  be  properly  subordinated  to 
the  work  of  "  persuading  men  in  Christ's  stead  to  become 
reconciled  to  God."  They  show  the  influence  of  a  minister's 
private  character  upon  his  public  performances,  that  an  orator 
must  be  a  good  man,  and  that  virtue  is  profitable  unto  all 
things  in  this  life. 

It  was  with  great  reluctance  that  the  editor  of  the  present 
volume  undertook  to  prepare  it  for  the  press.  He  well  knew 
that  Mr.  Homer  did  not  write  for  the  public  eye,  that  he  dread- 
ed the  criticisms  of  the  multitude,  and  would  have  shrunk  back 
from  the  remotest  suggestion  of  printing  his  posthumous 
remains.  "  When  I  am  gone,"  he  once  remarked,  "  I  wish  that 
nothing  more  than  my  name  and  my  age  may  be  told  to  those 
who  survive  me."  The  sermons  which  he  left  were  his  incipi- 
ient  efforts,  the  greater  part  of  them  were  written  amid  the 
duties  of  the  Theological  Seminary,  and  the  remainder  of  them 
during  the  anxieties  of  a  new  pastoral  relation,  a  relation 
which  he  sustained  but  a  few  weeks  and  from  which  he  was 
called  away  while  younger  than  the  majority  of  those  who  are 


PREFACE.  ¥ 

preparing  to  enter  upon  it.  Several  of  the  discourses  which  it 
was  necessary  to  leave  unpublished  are  more  flexible,  racy 
and  vigorous  than  these  which  are  taken  for  publication,  and 
of  these  which  are  taken  rather  than  selected,  some  were  the 
production  of  but  a  few  hours,  and  none  had  received  the  finish 
which  he  had  intended  to  give  them.  The  editor,  then,  was  not 
allowed  to  search  a  large  treasury  for  its  brightest  gems,  but 
was  obliged  to  use  nearly  half,  and  some  of  them  the  least 
pungent  of  all  the  discourses  which  their  author  had  ever 
written.  Denied  almost  entirely  the  use  of  his  eyes,  the 
editor  has  been  dependent  on  some  of  his  friends  for  the 
superintendence  of  the  press,  and  has  been  compelled  to 
omit  some  correcting  processes  which  he  would  gladly  have 
performed.  Fearing  to  mar  the  individuality  of  Mr.  Homer'a 
writings,  he  has  left  unmodified  some  of  the  statements  that 
seem  to  him  not  entirely  accurate.  No  alterations  have  been 
made  but  such  as  leave  unimpaired  the  identity  of  Mr.  Homer's 
character  and  style,  and  such  as  when  once  suggested  to  him 
would  probably  have  received  his  sanction.  In  preparing  the 
Memoir,  the  editor  has  been  much  assisted  by  several  friends 
of  the  deceased,  but  has  fallen  below  the  standard  which  he 
had  set  up,  and  has  failed  in  delineating  the  character  which 
he  understood  for  himself  better  than  he  could  describe  for 
others.  He  dismisses  the  work,  not  with  the  "frigid  tran- 
quillity "  which  Dr.  Johnson  speaks  of,  but  with  the  reflection 
that  under  many  disadvantages  he  has  done  what  he  could  for 
the  memory  of  one  who  deserves  a  better  memorial. 

Theol.  Sent.  AjidoveVy  ) 
May  2,  1842.         ) 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


So  numerous  were  the  personal  friends  of  the  subject  of 
the  following  Memoir,  and  especially  of  his  late  honored 
father,  that  an  edition  of  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  copies  of  his 
Writings  was  soon  exhausted,  and  the  volume  has  been  out  of 
print  for  some  years.  There  has  been  such  a  demand  for  it, 
however,  as  to  justify  the  issue  of  a  second  edition.  The 
editor  regrets,  that  his  health  and  avocations  have  rendered  it 
impossible  for  him  to  make  those  alterations  in  the  volume 
which  he  deemed  desirable.  He  has  omitted  the  "  Abstracts 
and  Notes  on  the  Classics,"  also  the  Plans  of  some  of  Mr. 
Homer's  unpublished  doctrinal  discourses,  which  appeared  in 
the  first  edition ;  has  inserted  a  few  additional  sentences  in 
the  Memoir,  a  Sketch  of  the  Character  of  Mr.  Homer's  father, 
and  an  Introductory  Essay ;  but  in  other  respects  has  been 
compelled  to  make  the  second  issue  a  simple  reprint  of  the 
first.  The  Introductory  Essay  has  been  inserted  at  the  instance 
of  friends,  who  thought  that  a  discussion  of  the  religious  influ- 
ence of  Theological  Seminaries  might  be  fitly  prefixed  to  the 
writings  of  one  who  had  been  educated,  to  an  unusual  extent, 
aloof  from  the  family  circle,  at  public  institutions  of  learning, 
and  the  most  important  part  of  whose  life  was  spent  at  a 
"  school  of  the  prophets." 

Theol.  Scm.^,Ambvei;  > 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY. 

PAGE. 

Religious  Influence  of  Theological  Seminaries,     .        .        .  xi 

MEMOIR. 

Mr.  Homer's  Childhood, 13 

Early  Youth  and  Residence  at  Amherst  College,           .        ,  21 

Activity  in  a  Revival  of  Religion, 28 

Habits  of  Self- contemplation,        .         .         .         .         .         .  36 

Residence  at  the  Theological  Seminary,         ....  46 

Health  and  Physical  Regimen, 58 

Results  of  Scholarship, 62 

Character  as  a  Friend, 63 

Developments  in  Affliction, 69 

Religious  Character, 80 

Facetiousness, 89 

Residence  at  South  Berwick,  Maine, 97 

Character  as  a  Preacher, 105 

Last  Days, 132 

APPENDIX   TO   THE   MEMOIR. 

Sketch  of  the  character  of  Mr.  George  J.  Homer,         .         .  148 
Brief  Plans  of  Lectures  on  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey  of 
Homer,  and  on  the  Oratory  of  Demosthenes,  with  Books 

of  Reference 156 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 


LITERARY    ADDRESSES. 

The  Posthumous  Power  of  the  Pulpit,  ....       161 

The  Dramatic  Element  in  Pulpit  Oratory,     .         .        .        .       168 


DISCOURSES. 
I. 

INFLUENCE   OF   FAMILIARITY  WITH   RELIGIOUS   TRUTH   UPON   THE 
SINNER. 

Matthew  13  :  57.— A  Prophet  is  not  without  honor,  save  in 

his  own  country,  and  in  his  own  house,     ....       183 

II. 

the    SAINTS   IN    HEAVEN   SUPERIOR   TO   THE   ANGELS. 

1  Corinthians  6  :  3. — Know  ye  not  that  we  shaU  judge 
angels? 200 

ni. 

THE   SAINTS    IN   HEAVEN   SUPERIOR  TO   THE   ANGELS. 

1  Corinthians  6  :  3. — ^Know  ye  not  that  we  shall  judge 
angels  r       .         .         . 2U 


IV. 

the  character  anl)  condition  of  the  sinner  who  is  nearly  a 
christian. 

Mark  12  :  34.— Thou  art  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of  God,        228 


V. 

FITNESS    OF   THE    MEDIATOR  TO   BE   THE    JUDGE   OF  THE   WORLD. 

John  5  :  27. — And  hath  given  him  aiithority  to  execute 
judgment  also,  because  he  is  the  Son  of  Man,    .         .         .       244 


CONTENTS.  IX 

VI. 

JESUS   OUR   MASTER,    TEACHER,    EXAMPLE   AND   REFUGE. 

Matthew  11  :  29. — Take  my  yoke  upon  you,  and  learn  of 
me  ;  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in  heart :  and  ye  shall  find 
rest  unto  your  souls, 262 

vn. 

the   responsibility    of  a  man   for   his   INFLUENCE   OVER   OTHERS. 

Genesis  4  :  9,  10. — And  the  Lord  said  unto  Cain,  Where  is 
Abel,  thy  brother  ?  And  he  said,  I  know  not :  am  I  my 
brother's  keeper  ?  And  he  said,  What  hast  thou  done  ? 
The  voice  of  thy  brother's  blood  crieth  unto  me  from  the 
ground, 274 

VIII. 

CHARACTER   OF  PONTIUS   PILATE. 

Luke  23  :  24. — And  Pilate  gave  sentence  that  it  should  be 

as  they  required, 286 

IX. 

THE   NEGLECT   OF  DUTY  AN   OCCASION    OF    POSITIVE    SIN. 

Genesis  4  :  7. — K  thou  doest  not  well,  sin  lieth  at  the  door,       308 

X. 

THE    CULTIVATION   OF  THE   SOCIAL   VIRTUES   NO   PROOF   OF    HOLINESS. 

Matthew  8  :  21,  22. — And  another  of  his  disciples  said  unto 
him,  Lord,  suffer  me  first  to  go  and  bury  my  father.  But 
Jesus  said  unto  him,  Follow  me  ;  and  let  the  dead  bury 
their  dead,  .         . 321 

XL 

the    connection   between   CHRISTIANITY  AND   THE   SOCIAL 
AFFECTIONS. 

John  19  :  26,  27. — When  Jesus  therefore  saw  his  mother, 
and  the  disciple  standing  by  whom  he  loved,  he  saith  un- 
to his  mother.  Woman,  behold  thy  son  !  Then  saith  he 
to  the  disciple,  Behold  thy  mother  !  And  from  that  hour 
that  disciple  took  her  into  his  own  house,  .        ,        .      335 


X  CONTENTS. 

XII. 

THE   EXTENT   AND   BROADNESS    OF   THE    DIVINE   LAW. 

Psalm  119  :  96. — I  have  seen  an  end  of  all  perfection  :  but 

th.y  commandment  is  exceeding  broad,       ....       349 

xin. 

THE    CHARACTER   AND   THE   REAVAM)   OF   ENOCH. 

Genesis  5  :  24.-^ And  Enoch  walked  with.  God  ;  and  he  was 
not,  for  God  took  him, .       364 

XIV. 

THE   DUTY   OF   IMMEDIATE   OBEDIENCE   TO  THE   DIVINE   COMMANDS. 

PsALM  119  :  60.— I  made  haste,  and  delayed  not  to  keep  thy 
commandments, 379 


INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY 

ON  THE 

RELIGIOUS  INFLUENCE  OF  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARIES- 


It  is  proverbially  said  that  tlie  character  of  a  man 
is  made  by  circumstances,  and  it  is  another  proverb 
lbaLcircunistaaces^bend«lQ..thaail£U^  With  a  quali- 
fication both  of  these  maxims  are  true,  without  it 
both  are  false.  All  men  receive  an  influence,  some 
more,  others  less,  from  the  scenes  amid  which  they 
move  ;  aud„alljiieix.puL,forth  some  degreejof  force, 
greater  or  s.m.aUer,-in  .controlling  the  agencies  which 
surround  them.  It  is  a  remark  of  John  Newton, 
that  ''none  but  he  who  made  the  world  can  make 
a  minister  of  the  gospel  ;  "  still,  he  who  made  the 
world  has  chosen  to  govern  it  by  secondary  causes, 
and  also  in  his  new  creation  complies  with  laws 
which  himself  has  instituted,  and  transmits  his 
grace  in  channels  marked  out  by  his  own  sovereign 
wisdom.  He  forms  the  character  of  his  ministers 
not  only  by  direct  interposition,  but  also  by  the 
outward  state  in  which   he  places  them.     It  is  the 


Xll 

dictate  of  prudence,  then,  to  examine  the  circum- 
stances in  which  they  have  been  educated  and  by 
which  their  character  has  been  partially  moulded. 
In  making  this  examination  we  cannot  overlook 
the  influence  of  Theological  Seminaries.  By  some 
these  schools  have  been  regarded  as  sanctuaries  to 
which  our  youth  may  flee  from  the  very  temptations 
of  sin  ;  where  they  may  sit  with  folded  arms  and 
imbibe  that  grace  for  which  men  in  the  world  must 
persevere  in  agonizing.  But  he  who  searches  for 
such  a  spiritual  Dorado  on  earth,  will  never  find 
it,  save  in  his  own  fancy.  It  is  an  ordinance  of 
tfaeaven  that  fallen  men  who  en^  the  kingdom  of 
"IGod  shall  pass  through  tribulation.  Our  life  must 
be  a  wrestling-scene.  Wherever  we  roam,  good 
influences  and  evil  influences  will  be  working  upon 
us,  and  the  very  promise  of  singing  a  triumphal 
song  in  heaven  implies  the  need  of  a  warfare  on 
earth.  But  there  is  an  opposite  extreme,  and  as 
some  imagine  the  spiritual  benefits  of  a  Theological 
School  to  be  unmingled,  so  others  exaggerate  both 
the  degree  and  the  necessity  of  its  evil  influence  on 
the  heart.  Even  the  student  in  such  a  school  will 
sometimes  so  overrate  the  power  of  his  temptations 
as  to  expect  to  be  injured  by  them,  and  it  is  unto 
him  according  to  his  faith.  He  would  fain  derive 
consolation  for  his  present  loss  from  the  hope  of  re- 
gaining his  spirituality  in  his  future  ofiice  ;  but  he 
who  now  accustoms  himself  to  omit  inward  strug- 
gles against  outward  evils  weakens  the  mainspring 
of  his  character,  and  forms  a  habit  which  may 
make   him  ever,  more   than   he   ought   to   be,   the 


XIU 


crert/z/re  of  circumstances.  The  fact  is  that  a  Theo- 
logical Seminary  has  peculiar  characteristics,  several 
of  which  may,  but  need  not  become  harmful;  many 
of  which  are,  and  all  of  which  may  be  made  con- 
ducive to  spiritual  progress.  As  the  church  i^  un- 
der Gtxl  dependent  on  its  minis]^,r-?^jUld..-as.  th 
dopaiidjtbrjheir  usefulness  on  the  tone  of  their re- 
ligious feeling,  and  as  this  is  affected  well  or  ill 
by  the  circumstances  of  their  education,  it  may  not 
be  inopportune  to  consider  some  of  the  distinctive 
characteristics  of  a  Theological  Seminary  in  their 
influence  on  the  piety  of  its  members. 

I.  One  peculiarity  in  the  life  of  a  theological  stu- 
dent is,  that  he  is  called  to  a  vigorous  exercise  of 
his  mind.  He  is  learning  the  most  comprehensive 
of  sciences,  and  is  disciplining  himself  for  a  work 
which  requires  a  rare  union  of  sagacity  with  learn- 
ing, of  logical  acumen  with  refined  taste.  If  he 
jnerely  desire  the  office  of  a  bishop,  but  do  not  exert 
his  powers  to  a  degree  commensurate  with  tfTe"" 
claims  of  that  great  office,  he  sins  against  the  spe- 
cial call  of  Providence  ;  he  is  guilty  of  that  wliich 
involves  the  essence  of  all  moral  evil,  the  neglecting  . 
of  the  very  duties  which  are  appropriately  required/ 
of  him.  He  is  willing,  perhaps,  to  do  some  things, 
but  unwilling  to  do  the  precise  things  which  he  is 
appointed  and  expected  to  do.  If,  for  the  sake  of 
being  uset^il  out  of  his  place,  he  shrink  away  from 
the  disciplinary  toil  required  of  him  as  a  candidate, 
then  he  will  be  apt,  in  his  official  course,  for  the 
sake  of  intermeddling  with  something  for  which  he 
has  no  vocation,  to  omit  the  peculiar  labors  de- 
b 


XIV 


manded  of  him  as  a  pastor.    He  will  often  be  found 

where  he  ought  not,  seldom  where   he  ought  to  be. 

I ,/    vVhatever  our  sphere  of  hfe,  if  we  evade  the"  sef- 

I  j      vices  distinctively  allotted  to  that  sphere,  we  do  as 

j     much  as  in   us  lies,  to  increase  the  cx)nfusion  and 

L  the  misrule  of  the  moral  world.  _____-.,^= 

The  mental  labor  to  which  the  theological  stu- 
dent is  called,  may  conduce  to  his  religious  ad- 
vancement. If  he  be  in  danger  of  cherishing  a 
pride  of  intellect,  he  may  best  subdue  that  pride  by 
sober  work.  Hard  labor  brings  down  high  looks. 
In  proportion  to  the  vigor  which  he  adds  to  his 
mental  powers  may  be  the  ardor  and  the  strength 
of  his  pious  emotion.  He  who  is  able  to  take  large 
views  of  divine  truth,  is  thereby  capacitated  for 
large  measures  of  love.  A  comprehensive  survey 
of  the  character  of  God,  such  a  survey  as  presup- 
poses toil  and  severe  discipline  of  mind,  may  be  an 
antecedent  of  the  most  enlarged  piety,  of  a  reverence 
too  })rofound,  of  a  complacency  too  exalted  for  a 
man  of  feeble  or  listless  intellect.  The  original 
law  of  our  constitution  is,  that  feeling  shall  follow 
perception  ;  and  in  obedience  to  this  law  the  heart 
is  often  enlarged  as  the  understanding  is  expanded, 
and  the  moral  nature  contracts  as  the  mental  range 
is  limited.  It  is  not  always  true  that  the  emotions 
are  less  active  in  maturer  life  than  they  are  in  early 
youth,  and  that  the  advance  of  manhood,  while  it 
strengthens  the  intellectual,  ossifies  the  seiisitive 
part  of  our  nature.  Bacon  and  Burke  became  the 
richer  in  their  sensibilities  as  years  added  to  the 
masculine  vigor  of  their  understanding.     We  see  in 


XV 

the  writings  of  Cyprian,  Chrysostom  and  Augustine, 
that  as  their  intellect  was  developed  by  time,  so 
was  their  religious  character  matured,  and  they 
grew  in  grace  as  they  advanced  in  knowledge.  It 
is  not  always  true  that,  for  a  single  day,  an  excite- 
ment of  our  intellectual  deadens  our  emotive  nature. 
The  reverse  is  often,  as  it  ought  to  be  the  fact. 
The  severe  argumentation  of  a  theologian  often 
jDrcpares  his  feelings  for  the  influence  of  the  doc-  ^ 
trine  which  has  absorbed  his  thoughts.  Thfe 
emotion  is  lighted  up  by  the  fires  of  the  intellect,  y  > 
The  activity  of  the  search  for  truth  may  give  a  zest 
to  the  enjoyment  of  it.  All  the  capabilities  of  the 
soul  were  designed  to  be  in  harmony;  the  emotions 
are  to  catch  the  excitement  of  the  thoughts,  and 
the  weariness  of  the  reason  is  to  be  relieved  by 
the  nimbleness  of  the  sentiment  which  has  been 
awaked  and  enlivened  by  study. 

The  influences  of  mental  action,  however,  upon 
the  religious  character  are  not  always  such  as  he 
who  formed  us  for  labor  designed  that  they  should 
be.  Piet^[_^^^  intellectual  as  well  as  a  moral  ex-., 
ercise,  and  often  requires  a  vigorous  cooperation  of 
the  understanding  with  the  affections.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  be  idly  religious.  Languid  sentimentalism 
is  not  the  consecrating  of  self  to  God.  Pietism  is 
one  thing,  piety  another.  When  the  student  has 
wearied  his  mind  in  the  laborious  analysis  of  truth, 
he  often  shrinks  away  from  the  stimulus  of  the 
emotions.  His  fatigue  indisposes  him  to  stretch 
out  his  thoughts  for  such  a  view  of  the  divine  ex- 
cellences as  will   call  forth  an  earnest  love,  and  he 


XVI 

retires  from  his  study  with  too  much  lassitude  for  a 
promising  entrance  into  his  closet.  While  he  is 
absorbed  in  his  investigation  of  doctrine  he  often 
feels  forbidden  to  break  the  chain  of  his  reasonings, 
compelled  to  go  forward  in  one  consecutive  series 
of  thoughts,  straight  forward,  not  wandering  into 
by-paths  of  devotion  even.  He  toils  on  until  he 
is  too  much  exhausted  to  appreciate  the  beauties  of 
the  truth  which  he  has  wrought  out,  and  his  evening 
prayer,  if  uttered  at  all,  is  too  much  like  the  music 
of  him  who  had  been  taxed  beyond  his  strength 
and  fell  sleeping  upon  his  instrument. 

It  is  not  so  in  other  walks  of  life.  While  the 
shepherd  watches  his  flock,  he  may  muse  at  the 
same  time  upon  the  kind  oversight  of  the  Great 
Shepherd  of  us  all,  and  when  his  daily  labor  is 
closed,  his  mind  may  be  fresh  for  communion  with 
him  who  carrieth  the  lambs  in  his  bosom.  A  cer- 
tain class  of  candidates  for  the  ministry  have  been 
too  willing  to  suppose  that  there  is  in  the  very  na- 
ture, and  not  merely  in  the  unwise  regulation  of 
studious  habits,  something  incompatible  with  high 
religious  culture,  and  have  therefore  foreborne  to 
store  their  minds  with  wealth  lest  they  should  im- 
poverish the  nobler  part  of  their  being.  By  no 
means,  however,  is  it  a  necessity,  it  is  a  simple  mis- 
management, which  makes  the  exertion  of  the  in- 
tellect interfere  with  the  improvement  of  the  affec- 
tions. Let  the  student  sanctify  unto  the  Lord  the 
hours  of  early  morning;  let  him  consecrate  his  fresh 
energies  and  not  merely  his  jaded  powers  to  the 
God  of  his  life  ;   let  him  intermit  his  studies  when- 


xvu 

ever  the  health  of  his  soul  demands  a  change,  and 
refresh  his  mind  for  its  abstracted  researches  in 
communing  with  the  Spirit  of  truth  ;  let  him  vary 
the  type  of  his  piety  according  to  the  varying  sub- 
jects of  his  contemplation,  and  make  the  state  of 
his  heart  appropriate  to  the  scenes  in  which  his 
duty  places  him.  If  he  fasten  his  mind  intensely 
for  too  long  a  time  on  an  absorbing  process  of  ar- 
gument, he  may  become  too  nervously  excited  for 
taking  rest  in  God.  Needful  indeed  it  is,  and 
healthful  also,  to  fix  our  thoughts  with  steadfast- 
ness on  some  one  theme  ;  but  it  is  not  amiss  to  look 
away  from  it  betimes  for  the  sake  of  looking  up- 
ward to  Him  from  whom  cometh  every  good  sug- 
gestion. The  most  cunning  performer  in  music 
will  stop  as  often  as  he  needs  to  attune  his  instru- 
ment, and  they  who  labor  on  dizzy  heights  will 
now  and  then  cast  a  glance  above  them  for  the 
sake  of  adjusting  the  balance  of  their  frames.  He 
who  would  perform  the  greatest  amount  of  intel- 
lectual labor,  must  not  allow  the  head  to  attain  an 
overgrowth  at  the  heart's  expense,  but  must  pre- 
serve his  susceptibilities  in  unison,  making  one  a 
complement  to  another,  and  cultivating  each  singly 
to  that  extent  which  the  perfection  of  all  collec- 
tively allows. 

II.  Another  peculiarity  in  the  life  of  a  theological 
student  is,  the  exercise  of  his  mind  on  religious 
subjects.  These  subjects  are  the  appropriate  ali- 
ment of  pious  emotion,  and  it  is  by  meditating  on 
them  that  such  emotion  becomes  healthy  and  elas- 
tic.    When  we   look  at  the  accountant  absorbed  in 


xvm 

his  arithmetical  calculations,  or  at  the  machinist 
corrugating  his  brow  over  the  working  of  wheels 
and  pullies,  we  turn  our  eyes  away  with  a  feeling 
-i)f  relief  to  the  student  of  theology,  who  holds  com- 
munion with  spiritual  truths  and  is  walking  all  the 
day  amid  the  realities  of  a  world  above^ur  own. 
Thrice  blessed  is  that  man  whose  hourly  vocation 
it  is,  aloof  from  the  cares  of  earth,  to  nourish  his 
soul  with  the  fruits  of  the  tree  of  life.  There  is  no 
branch  of  theological  study,  but  it  may  yield  nutri- 
ment to  the  religious  sensibilities.  As  the  bee  ex- 
tracts honex  from  poison,  so  the  pious  heart  will 
Herive  susteiiance  from  the  speculations_of  even  un- 
godly men.  James  Brainerd  Taylor  was  wont  to 
speak  with  reverence  and  gratitude  of  certain  theo- 
logical theories  which  are  often  regarded  as  barren 
of  moral  advantage,  but  which  were  found  by  him 
to  consolidate  the  faith  and  fortify  the  purposes  of  a 
devout  inquirer.  The  fact  is,  there  is  no  shading 
of  religious  doctrine,  no  peculiar  analysis  of  it,  no 
distant  relation  of  it,  no  philosophical  theory  illus- 
trating it,  no  reducing  of  it  to  its  appropriate  results, 
no  speculative  querying  about  it,  which  may  not 
enlarge  and  strengthen  the  spirit  of  a  right-minded 
scholar.  While  John  Calvin  was  looking  down  into 
those  depths  of  religious  truth  which  are  thought 
by  some  to  make  the  head  dizzy  and  to  jeopard  the 
safe  action  of  the  heart,  he  was  invigorating  his 
nature  for  the  stern  duties  which  awaited  him,  he 
was  acquiring  a  more  rational  and  comprehensive 
faith,  he  was  refining  his  taste  for  the  milder  beau- 
ties of  the   Bible,  and   was  even  fitting  himself  to 


XIX 

enjoy  the  placidness  of  the  lake  and  the  grandeur 
of  the  mountains  that  environed  the  scene  of  his 
meditations.  That  good  man  was  declared  by  the 
learned  Scaliger  to  be  the  most  erudite  scholar  in 
Europe,  and  on  his  death  bed  when  dissuaded  by 
his  friends  from  the  prosecution  of  his  studies,  he  ex- 
claimed, '^vultis  ne  me  otiosum  a  Deo  apprehendi?" 
His  biography  is  a  full  proof  that  theological  and 
metaphysical  speculation  may  be  as  life  to  the  soul. 
The  idea  that  its  appropriate  influence  is  to  subvert 
the  simplicity  of  faith,  is  a  prejudice  which  has  nar- 
rowed many  an  intellect  and  dwarfed  the  heart. 
It  has  often  been  objected,  that  if  the  scholar  exam- 
ine abstruse  theories,  he  will  dispute  upon  thejn,  and 
that  the  spirit  of  controversy  is  alien  from  that  of 
the  Gospel.  But  we  read  of  the  Apostle  Paul,  that 
he  disputed  with  the  devout  persons  and  in  the 
market  daily.  There  is  peril  in  theological  debate, 
and  there  is  peril  in  abstinence  from  it.  The  peace 
of  the  soul  may  be  disturbed  by  it,  and  the  want  of 
it  may  make  the  student  inert  and  sluggish.  There 
is  lianger  every  where,  but  the  greatest  danger  of 
the  scholar  is  where  he  has  the  least  enthusiasm  in 
the  studies  of  his  profession.  If  the  members  of  a 
Theological  Seminary  are  afraid  of  prying  into  the 
relations  of  truth  lest  they  become  proud  ;  if 
they  shrink  away  from  the  manly  encounter 
in  argument,  lest  they  lose  the  meekness  of  the 
Gospel,  the  danger  is  that  they  will  become  indolent, 
and  where  a  hundred  indolent  young  men  are  in 
daily  intercourse  they  will  degrade  one  another. 
In  other  circumstances  they  may  be  good  Christians, 


XX 

but  now  they  have  nothing  to  do,  and  idle  men, 
good  or  bad,  will  do  mischief.  Where  even  exem- 
plary Christians  are  guilty  of  the  solecism  of  a  lazy 
life,  there  is  the  other  solecism  of  confusion  and 
every  evil  work. 

It  is  a  fancy  of  some  students,  that  their  way  of 
advancing  in  holiness  is  to  repress  their  regard  for 
every  thing  scientific  and  attend  exclusively  to 
dtheir  own  moral  growth.  But  this  experiment  has 
b~een  tried  ni  monastic  institutions  and  has  resulted 
in  the  increase  of  spiritual  selfishness  and  pride. 
The  true  lesson  of  Protestantism  is,  that  piety  is 
inirtured  by  diligence  in  our  honest  calling  what- 
ever that  calling  may  be,  that  one  who  will  honor 
God  must  labor  for  him  either  with  the  intellect  or 
the  muscles,  that  the  heart  will  rise  highest  in  true 
devotion  after  irTias  been  interested  in  some  needful 
toil,  and  that  the  man  who  shuns  the  tasks  of  his 
profession  in  order  to  give  his  religious  feeling  a 
freer  scope  and  an  easier  progress  upward,  is  like 
the  boyvvho  cuts  the  twine  that  bound  his  kite  to 
the  earth  and  thus  hopes  to  make  the  light  frame 
ascend  higher  and  unobstructed  toward  the  heavens. 
No;  if  a  student  will  not  work  for  truth,  neither 
shall  he  eat  of  its  richest  and  rarest  fruits.  It  is  a 
decree  of  heaven,  that  our  healthy  religious  growth 
shall  be  the  result  not  of  listless  wishes  for  it,  but 
of  industry  in  some  one  honest  work. 

Still,  there  are  tendencies  of  theological  study 
which  need  to  be  wisely  controlled.  The  welfare 
of  the  soul  requires  alternation  in  its  exercises. 
When  it  has  long   pursued  one  train  of  thought,  it 


XXI 

craves  a  new  impulse,  an  entire  change  in  its  asso- 
ciations. After  an  engrossing  research  into  the  laws 
of  man,  Sir  Matthew  Hale  would  recreate  his  spirit 
by  communing  with  the  grace  of  Christ.  John 
Mason  Good  would  gain  the  needed  refreshment  of 
his  mind,  by  diverting  it  from  the  phenomena  of 
disease  and  death  to  the  promises  of  life  and  im- 
mortality. But  the  transition  from  the  studies  of  a 
theologian  to  his  practical  musings,  is  not  so  marked 
a  change.  Dr.  Bellamy  was  indisposed  to  relax  his 
wearied  intellect  with  the  same  class  of  sentiments 
which  would  renovate  the  spirit  of  Roger  Sherman. 
In  searching  for  an  alterative  in  the  type  of  his  re- 
flections, the  clerical  student  is  often  prompted  to 
select  those  objects  which  have  the  least  affinity 
with  his  professional  studies.  Because  his  daily 
routine  is  graver  than  that  of  other  men,  he  seeks 
variety  in  trains  of  thought  which  may  prevent  his 
seriousness  from  degenerating  into  a  morbid  gloom. 
Hence  comes  it  to  pass,  that  when  the  minister's 
bow  is  unstrung  it  sometimes  flies  into  the  opposite 
curve.  Prom  his  sombre  and  perhaps  depressing 
lucubrations  he  often  finds  an  insufficient  relief  in 
the  hymns  of  Cowper  or  the  Confessions  of  Au- 
gustine, and  turns  instinctively  to  something  more 
novel,  more  diversified,  more  unlike  those  saddening 
thoughts  which  his  mental  health  requires  him  to 
dissipate.  This  is  not  always  an  irreligious  craving 
but  a  natural  one,  not  that  kind  of  nature  which  is 
to  be  repressed  but  that  kind  which  is  to  be  con- 
trolled. A  wise  control  of  it  is  preeminently  need- 
ful among  a  collection  of  youthful  students.     When 


xxu 


they  seek  to  unburden  their  minds  in  easy  conver- 
sation, like  that  of  Martin  Luther  or  Dr.  Wither- 
spoon  or  Robert  Hall,  they  are  in  danger  of  ending 
in  levity  what  they  began  in  cheerfulness,  and  of 
allowing  the  buoyancy  of  their  age  and  the  sympa- 
thies of  their  companionship  to  lengthen  out  a  rec- 
reation into  an  employment. 

There  is  another  evil.  The  student  of  theology 
is  discomposed  by  the  intrusion  of  scholastic  ideas 
into  the  current  of  his  devotional  meditations.  He 
has  been  speculating  all  the  day  upon  the  existence 
of  the  great  First  Cause  ;  and  when  the  evening 
prayer  is  offered,  some  sceptical  theory  stretches  it- 
self out  as  a  brazen  wall  between  himself  and  his 
Maker.  We  often  read  of  clergymen  who  like 
I  Payson  have  been  haunted  with  atheistic  doubts  in 
thelFTiour  of  devotion,  and  have  found  it  difficult 
to  believe  in  those  cardinal  doctrines  which  they 
had  thoroughly  pmYeS.lC^^'^r^eT'JAt  the  sacra- 
mental supper  the  words,  '  This  is  my  body,'  come 
with  a  renovating  power  to  the  simple-hearted  com- 
municant, but  at  his  side  a  student  of  theology  will 
be  insensibly  led  to  count  up  those  subtle  interpre- 
tations by  which  the  meaning  of  these  words  ceases 
to  be  plain,  and  thus  will  he  unconsciously  allow 
the  place  for  pious  sentiment  to  be  usurped  by  the 
processes  of  philology.  The  humble  peasant  has 
none  but  a  spiritual  association  with  the  text,  ^  One 
thing  is  needful,'  but  the  elevated  scholar,  remem- 
bering the  analysis  of  critics,  is  drawn  away  from 
the  solemn  import  of  this  text  to  inquire,  whether 
it  were  designed  to  recommend  a  restriction  of  our 


XXIU 

diet  to  one  kind  of  food  at  a  repast.  Of  a  single 
short  verse  in  the  New  Testament,^  commentators 
have  given  two  hundred  and  fifty  different  explana- 
tions. The  verse  would  suggest  a  wholesome  sen- 
timent to  the  heart  of  one  whose  ignorance  is  bliss, 
while  it  would  fail  to  reach  the  feelings  of  the  stu- 
dent taxing  his  memory  with  the  enumeration  of  the 
criticisms  under  which  the  usefulness  of  the  verse 
would  lie  buried.  Some  of  the  sweetest  passages 
of  the  Bible  are  wrapped  round  about  with  scholas- 
tic comments,  and  the  practical  wisdom  which  was 
designed  for  the  consolation  of  Israel  is  hidden,  for 
a  time,  from  him  who  would  make  himself  familiar 
with  the  sophistries  by  which  that  wisdom  has 
been  explained  away.  All  this  is  one  part  of  the 
probation  of  the  clerical  scholar.  He,  as  well  as 
the  statesman  or  the  mechanic,  has  peculiar  trials  of 
his  faith,  and  he  is  called  to  resist  his  own  allure- 
ments to  evil,  not  the  allurements  of  other  men. 
He  must  not  shrink  from  his  duty  because  in  per- 
forming it  he  is  exposed  to  a  failure.  He  must  not 
hesitate  to  'give  attendance  to  reading,'  but  must 
brace  himself  against  those  influences  by  which 
'  knowledge  puffeth  up.'  He  must  not  forbear  to 
struggle  with  the  objections  of  men,  but  must  also 
struggle  through  them,  must  look  over  and  beyond 
them,  and  keep  habitually  in  sight  the  beauty  and 
the  glory  of  the  truth  which  these  objections  would 
conceal.  It  is  possible  for  him  through  grace  to 
acquire  such  a  mastery   over  his  habits   of  mental 

'  Galatians  3  :  20. 


XXIV 

suggestion  as,  at  the  proper  hour,  to  dissociate  the 
doctrines  of  the  Bible  from  the  tortuosities  of  spec- 
ulation concerning  them,  and  let  them  shine  forth 
in  their  own  light  and  burn  away  the  mists  in 
which  cavilers  would  envelop  them.  It  is  recorded 
of  President  Porter,  that  although  accustomed  for 
years  to  the  daily  perusal  of  sermons  for  the  purpose 
of  criticising  them,  he  had  so  regulated  his  mind  as 
almost  entirely  to  banish  his  critical  propensities 
from  the  house  and  the  hour  of  worship,  and  to  lis- 
ten to  discourses  like  the  unlettered  believer,  with 
the  simple  intent  to  enrich  his  heart  by  them.^ 
Such  a  power  over  the  associating  principle  should 
be  toiled  for,  and  all  the  influences  of  time  and 
place  should  be  made  tributary  to  it;  for  in  its  at- 
tainment lies  the  scholar's  safety  and  strength.  If 
he  can  not  fix  his  steady  gaze  upon  the  moral  aspect 
of  a  doctrine  in  his  study  chamber,  let  him  retire  to 
his  closet  and  shut  the  door.  If  he  can  not  confine 
himself  to  a  spiritual  interpretation  of  the  Bible 
when  he  reads  the  page  covered  with  his  critical 
pencilings,  let  him  preserve  a  copy  of  the  sacred 
volume  whose  margins  shall  be  pure  from  all  traces 
of  scholastic  research.  Let  him  so  adjust  his  spec- 
ulations and  his  devotions,  that  the  tormer  shall 
never  crowd  the  latter  from  their  rightful  sphere. 
Let  him  be  so  at  home  with  the  practical  influence 
of  every  truth,  that  it  shall  at  once  evoke  its  fitting 
emotion.  This  is  indeed  a  labor ;  but  what  state 
of  man  is   free  from  toil  ?     It  is  a  task   which  is  to 

'  See  Meraoir  of  Dr.  Porter,  p.  181. 


XXV 

be  coveted,  for  it  makes  the  scholar  '  strong  in  the 
grace  that  is  in  Christ  Jesus.'  Who  shall  'endure 
hardness  as  a  good  soldier,'  and  make  all  trials  con- 
duce to  the  soul's  virtue,  if  not  the  man  who  is 
fitting  himself  to  contend  with  principalities  and 
powers  ?  And  what  influences  can  be  turned  in 
favor  of  our  moral  culture,  if  not  the  influences  of 
religious  doctrine,  of  that  study  which  is  only  be- 
gun here  to  be  prosecuted  in  heaven?  It  is  a  study 
not  exempt  from  moral  danger,  for  althoug}i  t£^^ 
pure  all  thin£s  are  pure,  yet  to  the  defiled  xace  of 
Adam  is  nothing  pure,  not  even  thd^^  mind,,§nd 

conscience.  The  riches  of  heaven's  pavement, 
trodden  gold,  will  attract  the  eyes  of  Mammon 
downward.  But  what  then  ?  Shall  he  who  would 
lead  the  armies  of  Israel  to  fight  the  good  fight  of 
faith,  shrink  away  from  the  first  aspect  of  danger  ? 
He  n eed s , Jke .^  discipl i ne  .  of-  perils-  For  the  in- 
crease of  his  moral  hardihood  he  needs  to  wrestle 
with  the  wild  beasts  of  Ephesus.  He  needs  to  feel 
the  occasion  for  taking  to  himself  the  whole  armor 
of  God,  so  that  he  may  train  his  hearers  to  stand  fast 
in  their  evil  day.  He  needs  to  experience  the  reason 
and  the  comfort  of  those  words  of  blessed  promise, 
'  To  him  that  overcometh  will  I  give  to  sit  down 
with  me  on  my  throne,  even  as  I  overcame,  and  am 
set  down  with  my  Father  on  his  throne.' 
"^^IH.  Allusions  have  been  made  already  to  the  im- 
portance of  rendering  times  and  seasons  conducive 
to  the  quickening  of  our  spiritual  nature.  These 
allusions  suggest  a  distinct  peculiarity  in  the  life  of 
a  Theological   School  ;   a  peculiarity  in  the  asso- 


XXVI 


(nations  of  time  and  place  by  which  it  affects  the 
religious  character.     It   is   the    law  of  contiguity 
which  regulates  the    ordinary   suggestions  of  the 
mind.     We  wish  to  see  a  distinction  between  those 
outward   objects   which   are  of  sacred,   and   those 
which  are  of   secular  interest.     That  craving  fur 
varietyand  ^appropriateness,    which   is    part   and 
parcel  of  our  nat uresis   not   fullj^   satTsfied^^^'^^ss 
the  things  which  are  of  holy  assqciatiqn^be  sepa- 
^^J^SL-lJ!^^  JK^S^^  ^^^[*^^Y.   concern.     Now    in 
some   Theological  as  well  as  Literary  Institutions, 
there   is  not   much  external  and  visible  difference 
between  the  scenes  where  the  heart  is  to  be  nur- 
tured, and  those  where  the  intellect  is  to  receive  its 
sturdy  discipline.     With  a  pious  fondness  does  the 
imlettered  Christian  repair*  to  the  house    of  God. 
That    is   a   consecrated    temple.      He    looks    upon 
its    pulpit  with    such    an    awe    and    love,   as  give 
to    the    words    uttered   from    it  a  meaning   and  a 
power  far  above  that  of  the  same   words  spoken 
elsewhere.     In  a  sanctuary  distant  from  his  home, 
embowered  amid  venerable  trees,  pointing  its  spire 
upward  with  a  wise  significance,  surrounded  with 
the  graves  of  a  beloved  ancestry ;  a  building  where 
fathers  and  mothers,  brothers  and  sisters,  rich  and 
poor,   lettered  and   ignorant  blend   their  voices  in 
one    anthem  of  praise    and    kneel    down    together 
before  one  Saviour,  the  God  of  all  the  families  of 
the  earth  ;  where  all  meet  their   friendly  shepherd 
whose   reverend   locks   are  a  memento  of  his  long- 
tried  faithfulness  ;  in  a  house  thus  peculiar  and  set 
apart,  there   is  a  commingling  of  spirits,  a  sanctity 


XXVll 


of  interest,  a  quickness  of  suggestion,  which 
answer  well  to  the  longings  of  our  religious  nature. 
But  when  a  conipanj  of  cloistered  young  men  step 
jSiut  from  Their  own  rooms  into  another  which  has 
but  little  of  the  form  or  the  comeliness  oF  a  church, 
into  a  room  whicli  is  designed  and  used  for  literary 
rehearsals  and  academic  festivities,  a  room  which  is 
associated  with  severity  of  criticism  and  acrimony 
of  debate  and  free  encounter  of  wit,  and  when 
tl^ey  meet  there  but  few  with  whom  they  are  not 
in  daily  intercourse,  few  stranger^  whose  beaming 
countenances  remind  them  that  this  is  a  peculiar 
day  and  this  a  house  for  the  outpouring  of  new 
sympathies  of  the  heart,  few  children  to  gladden 
the  temple  of  the  Lord  with  their  innocent  hosan- 
naSj  few  pious  Simeons  to  jhed  the  sacred ness  of 
their  venerable  age  over  the  house  where  they  were 
baptized  in  infancy,  and  whence  they  are  ready  to 
depart  in  peace  to  the  garden  hard  by  in  which 
their  fathers  are  sleeping  ;  where  there  is  no  one 
man  who  is  clothed  with  the  dignity  of  a  pastor,  to 
whom  all  look  up  for  goodly  counsel,  and  around 
whose  paternal  form  the  pleasant  memories  of  old 
and  young  entwine  themselves  ;  when  thirty  or 
forty  youthful  preachers  assemble  in  the  half  litera- 
ry, half  religious  chapel  and  find  it  hard  to  refrain 
from  criticising  the  preacher  of  the  day,  who  in  his 
turn  will  repay  each  of  them  with  fault-finding  ; 
when  we  think  of  this  undiversified,  monotonous, 
ungenial  and  almost  learned  worship,  then  it  seems, 
at  least  on  the  first  glance,  that  this  is  no  place  for 
the  rest  of  the  Sabbath,  no  house  for  the  swallow 


XXVlll 

to  build  her  peaceful  nest  in,  no  scene  where  the 
good  Shepherd  follows  after  the  flock,  with  benig- 
nant eye,  while  they  wander  beside  the  still  waters 
and  over  the  green  pastures. 

Still  this  want  of  distinction  between  the  visible 
objects  which  are  of  ordinary  and  those  which  are  of 
devotional  interest,  need  not  result  in  a  loss  of  reli- 
gious feeling.  It  is  indeed  an  evil,  but  one  which 
may  be  in  part  prevented,  by  providing  the  Theo- 
logical School  with  a  sanctuary  which  may  not  be 
likewise  used  as«a  receptacle  of  mere  literary  or 
musical  practitioners  ;  with  a  pastor  also  who  shall 
be  regarded  as  something  more  than  one  who  is 
learning  to  preach,  and  shall  allure  into  his  fold 
whole  families  of  men,  women  aad  children,  a 
more  various  auditory  than  that  of  mere  and  dry 
scholastics.  But  if  the  evil  be  not  thus  removed, 
it  may  be  resisted  ;  "and"  1n  disciplining  the  heart 
against  it,  is  called  forth  the  true  manliness  of  char-^ 
acter.  It  may  lead  some  to  a  more  chastened 
contemplation  of  truth  in  its  essence,  to  a  purer  and 
more  abstracted  pietyya  piety  that  can  go  alone 
without  the  crutches  of  merely  external  scenes, 
and  that  will  go  for  help  to  him  who  is  a  Spirit  and 
by  whom  the  faith  and  love  of  all  who  seek  him 
in  earnest  shall  be  preserved  fresh  and  glowing, 
^-^t  may  lead  others  to  a  habit  of  investing  all  objects 
with  holy  associations.  Martin  Luther  objected  to 
religious  holidays,  because  they  prevented  men  from 
regarding  every  day  as  holy  unto  the  Lord.  John 
Knox  frowned  upon  the  idea  that  church-edifices 
are  peculiarly  sacred,  for  such  an^  idea  kept  men 


XXIX 

from  looking  upon  all  houses  and  all  places  as 
consecrated  by  the  divine  presence.  Jfj^^^hen,  ! 
there  is  but  little  distinction  between  the  sacred  I  U 
and  the  secular,  the  Sabbath-day  scenes  and  the 
every-day  scenes  of  some  Theological  Schools, 
the  student  should  train  himself  to  regard  his 
duties  for  every  day  as  akin  to  the  peculiar  du- 
ties of  the  Sabbath,  and  his  common  routine  of 
employment  as  indistinguishable  from  what  would 
be  the  special  sacred ness  of  other  professions. 
That  which  is  called  his  ordinary  life  should  be  the  "^ 
life  of  those  who  dwell  night  and  day  in  the  tem- 
ple ;  and  one  reason  why  it  is  not  broken  up  by 
occurrences  of  peculiar  solemnity  should  be,  that  it  - 
is  all  peculiarly  solemn.  When_Jie  feels  the  want 
of  visible  distinctions  between  his  daily  outgoings 
and  his  more  sacred  walks,  let  him  remember  that 
hallowed  remembrances  cluster  around  those  objects 
which  appear  to  him  so  common,  and  that  a  band 
of  holy  men  look  down  from  heaven  upon  the  spot 
of  his  residence  as  rich  in  its  suggestions  of  what 
it  has  been  and  is  still  to  be  ;  as  a  spot  where  the 
church  is  small  in  number  but  has  contained  or  will 
contain  hundreds  or  thousands  of  the  Lord's  minis- 
isters ;  where  the  fountain  is  noiseless  and  few 
drink  from  it  at  any  one  time,  but  it  is  ever  flowing 
and  annually  sends  forth  its  streams  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth. 

There  is  often,  indeed,  a  peculiarity  in  the  local 
associations  of  a  theological  student.  But  this 
peculiarity  is  not  always  unfavorable  to  his  religious 
sentiment.     When  the  members  of  retired  churches 


XXX 

come  for  the  first  time  to  the  most  ancient  Theo- 
logical Seminary  in  New  England,  they  do  not  feel 
that  the  place  is  barren  of  religious  suggestions. 
They  inquire  with  earnestness,  Where  was  the 
study  of  Samuel  J.  Mills  ?  Where  was  the  chosen 
walk  of  Levi  Parsons  ?  On  which  of  these  sur- 
rounding hills  did  Gordon  Hall  construct  his  arbor 
for  prayer  ?  Through  which  of  these  fields  and 
groves  did  Newell,  Judson  and  King,  Marsh  and 
Wilcox  love  to  wander  ?  Over  all  these  grounds 
which  are  laid  out  for  the  church,  the  student 
is  treading  in  the  footsteps  of  godly  men  who 
being  dead  yet  speak  to  him  of  these  still  retreats 
as  made  holy  by  the  wonderful  presence  of  their 
Saviour.  While  he  sighs  for  some  of  the  associa- 
tions which  cluster  around  the  sanctuary  of  his 
native  village,  he  may  still  discipline  himself  to 
regard  the  literary  chapel  as  eloquent  in  its  memen- 
toes of  divine  truths  there  dispensed,  of  stores  of 
spiritual  wisdom  there  garnered  up,  and  of  vows 
there  made  to  sacrifice  all  the  tendernesses  of  home 
to  the  welfare  of  strangers  and  barbarians.  He 
listens  to  the  preaching  of  young  men  whose  histo- 
ry is  to  be  entwined  with  that  of  the  church,  and 
whose  first  sermons  he  will  long  remember  as  the 
first-fruits  of  a  rich  harvest ;  of  men  now  standing 
as  successors  to  a  thousand  youthful  preachers  who 
have  occupied  the  same  pulpit  in  years  gone  by, 
and  to  some  of  whom  the  whole  world  have  be- 
come debtors.  The  cup  from  which  he  drinks  the 
wine  of  his  Saviour's  table,  is  the  cup  of  commun- 
ion with  a  band  of  chosen  missionaries   who  once 


XXXI 

drank  from  the  same  identical  vase,  a  goodly  com- 
pany of  whom  are  now  communing  with  their 
Saviour  in  a  house  not  made  with  hands.  Prayer 
that  has  changed  the  moral  aspect  of  the  world, 
once  resounded  through  the  very  halls  which  are  by 
some  imagined  to  be  destitute  of  sacred  suggestions. 
Hours  of  spiritual  agony  have  been  suffered  in 
them,  and  the  moon  that  journeys  over  this  still  en- 
closure has  looked  down  upon  the  vigils  of  many  a 
hard-nerved  man  bending  his  knee  before  the  God 
who  never  slumbereth,  and  crying  '  Here  am  I, 
send  me.'  From  the  Byzantine  Capitol,  and  the 
shores  of  the  ^gean  Sea,  are  coming  back  grateful 
and  loving  thoughts  toward  the  sj^ot  which  has 
been  the  refreshing-place  for  pilgrims  who  went 
hence  into  all  the  world  ;  and  daily  orisons  go  up 
even  yetjror,him  who^studies  in  ihis  hallowed  spot^ 
from  the  mountains  of  Lebanon  and  the  Persian 
plains,  leading  him  to  reflect  what  manner  of  man 
he  ought  to  be.  To  a  considerate  student,  and 
none  other  should  anticipate  the  sacred  office,  such 
a  resting-place  for  the  anointed  ones  of  the  Lord 
loses  its  frigid  and  stiff  appearance,  and  seems  to  be 
blended  with  the  sympathies  of  all  who  pray  for 
the  nurseries  of  religious  learning.  From  beneath 
its  chilly  surface  there  come  reminiscences  which 
transform  the  chambers  of  literary  exercise  into  the 
presence-chamber  of  the  Eternal,  and  connect  the 
yoiithfid  pxeacher,  in  a  yjsjble  j'eunion,  with  those 
who  have  turned  many  unto  righteousness,  ajpd 
who  wUl^  shj.neja5.  the  stars  forever^^ud^ever. 

In   none   of  our   Theological   Seminaries  is  the 


XXXll 

student  always,  in  some  of  them  never,  confined  to 
the  worship  of  God  in  a  literary  hall  and  with  a 
literary  congregation.  He  is  often,  and  in  some 
Institutions  uniformly,  permitted  to  frequent  the 
more  promiscuous  gatherings  of  worshippers,  to 
mingle  his  sympathies  with  the  most  unsophisti- 
cated of  his  brethren,  and  to  reap  the  benefits  as 
well  as  the  evils  of  a  style  of  preaching  not 
especially  adapted  to  himself  as  a  theologian.  It 
is  objected,  that  he  does  not  find  a  religious  home 
in  the  church  however  popular,  with  which  he  may 
become  united  for  a  few  months  ;  that  he  regards 
himself,  and  is  regarded  by  his  fellow-worshippers  as 
a  stranger  or  a  semi-professional  visitant.  It  is  said 
that  the  private  student  of  some  affectionate  pastor, 
who  is  received  into  the  bosom  of  the  pastor's  fam- 
ily, and  is  therefore  looked  upon  with  a  personal 
interest  by  the  whole  village  church,  enjoys  a 
better  system  of  local  influences  than  that  which 
operates  on  the  member  of  a  public  Institution, 
whose  individual  welfare  is  forgotten  in  that  of  the 
multitude  of  his  fellow  candidates,  and  whose 
participation  in  the  religious  exercises  of  the  com- 
munity is  frigidly  esteemed  by  some  as  a  system  of 
experiments  for  his  own  good,  rather  than  the  good 
of  those  whom  he  addresses.  But  while  he  fore- 
goes certain  advantages  which  may  be  enjoyed  by 
the  more  private  scholar,  he  is  favored  with  others 
which  are  peculiar  to  his  public  situation.  The 
hour  of  his  devotional  fellowship  with  his  compan- 
ions in  study,  of  that  blending  of  kindred  minds 
into  one  generous,   expansive  spirit,  of  prayer   to 


XXXlll 


God  in  a  chaste,  refined   language   with  which  all 
sympathize  IHd'wh^       tKe'*  spbritaiieous  outHo w     , 
of  none  but  equals  in  mental   and  moral  culture,     \ 
this  is  an  hour  of  purity  and  elevation  of  feeling,      •f\ 
of  high  aims  and  cheering  anticipations,  such  as     ;  : 
lijre,s_lp.|ig  in^  the  recollection  and  never  ceases  to     W 
incorporate  its  liiffuehce  with  the  life.     There  are 
hundreds  of  preachers,  whose  memory  lingers  around 
no   earthly   place    with   more    gratitude    than   the 
Theological   Chamber  of  Yale   College,  in  which 
their  religious  enthusiasm  was  kindled  by  the  sym- 
pathetic   fervor   of    their    fellow-students.      How 
many  rooms  at  Williams,  Dartmouth  and  Middle- 
bury,  will   be  visited  with  delight  by  youthful  but 
reverent  scholars,  who  have  heard  from  their  fathers 
of  the  ^nnoyingjfyiowsh^^  which  those  apart- 

ments have  become  identified  with  the  history  of 
the  church.  The  life  of  a  young  theologian  who 
is  faithful  to  the  duties  of  the  Seminary,  may  be 
diversified  with  but  few  visits  to  those  staid  but 
cheerful  parlors,  which  were  so  long  remembered 
by  the  licentiates  from  Northampton,  Stockbridge, 
Bethlem,  Great  Barrington,  Colebrook  and  Goshen ; 
yet,  as  in  all  of  nature's  works,  there  is  here  a 
compensative  process  ;  the  loss  of  one  privilege  is 
balanced  by  the  gain  of  another,  the  genial  recol- 
lections of  gathering  around  the  family  hearth 
give  place  to  remembrances  of  more  intellectual 
and  more  enrapturing  intercourse  with  men,  who 
were  so  disentangled  from  earthly  cares  that  they 
lived  for  the  spirit  and  made  no  provision  for 
the  flesh. 


XXXIV 

IV.  But  these  remarks  anticipate  our  succeeding 
topic.  The  life  at  a  Theological  School  is  distin- 
guished from  that  of  the  ordinary  Christian,  in  the 
kind  of  facilities  which  it  affords  for  social  intercourse 
and  practical  beneficence.  It  is  what  may  be  called  in 
a  modified  phrase  an  unnatural  mode  of  living,  and 
as  such  it  has  some  tendencies  which  need  to  be 
resisted.  It  is  not  the  ordinary  plan  of  nature  for 
young  men  to  withdraw  themselves  from  all  other 
classes  of  society,  and  foregoing  the  sympathies  of 
the  world,  to  find  their  most  genial  companions  in 
books.  It  is  good  to  take  walks  of  charity,  to  visit 
the  lame  and  the  blind,  to  mingle  in  the  family 
group  who  surround  their  fireside  in  tears,  and  to 
join  in  the  glee  of  children  who  have  not  learned 
to  conceal  the  heartiness  of  their  friendships.  By 
doing  good  in  the  varied  scenes  of  life,  we  receive 
more  than  we  give  away.  Still,  on  the  whole  it  is 
wise  for  the  scholar  to  shut  himself  out,  for  a  season, 
from"some  of  the  associations  of  active  life.  Nature 
often  crosses  her  own  paths  ;  and  although  it  is  not 
healthful  to  deviate  for  a  long  time  from  her  favorite 
laws,  yet  she  often  prescribes,  for  a  short  period, 
what  for  a  continuance  would  be  really  unnatural. 
She  sends  her  frosts  to  blight  the  vegetation  which 
she  had  nurtured,  and  imbeds  the  embryo  worm  in 
the  young  fruit.  She  bids  us  prune  the  tree  to 
promote  its  growth,  and  amputate  the  arm  to  pre- 
serve the  body.  The  good  of  the  world  demands 
a  temporary  seclusion  of  some  classes  from  promis- 
cuous society.  Not  only  miners,  mariners  and 
soldiers,  but  tradesmen  also  and  statesmen,  lawyers 


XXXV 

and  physicians  must  have  a  season  of  immuring 
themselves  in  the  business  of  their  profession  and 
keeping  aloof  from  the  common  influences  of  the 
multitude.     If  a   man    will    be   a   student,  and    a 
theologian.,  ifl List  be  one,   he  cannot  dispense  with 
tjie  discipline  of  s^IUude);   and  as  nothing  which 
duty  requires   need   injure  him,  so  that  abstinence 
from    social    pleasures    which    makes   his    intellect 
hardy,  need   not,   although    by   his  fault   it    may, 
shrivel   up   his     affections.      Chrysostom,    Jerome, 
Augustine,  Luther,  Calvin,   Zwingle,  Oecolampad, 
and  indeed  nearly  all  the  fathers  and  reformers  of 
the  church,  were    indebted  for  the   usefulness    of 
their   manhood    to    the    busy   retirement   of    their 
earlier  years.     In  this  country,  and  in  this  age  of 
steam  engines  and  telegraph  wires,  we  are  in  danger 
of  shortening   the   professed   novitiate  of  a  clergy- 
man, and_thu,s_k£e^ng  him    ever- a- real   lioyice. 
The  ardent  youth  hears  in  his  still  chamber  the  cry 
for  immediate  action,  and  he  sp)rings  from  the  folios 
which   were  tasking  his  mind,  and  soon  loses  him- 
self and  is  in  a  degree  lost  to  others  in  the  whirl  of 
a  society  which  knows  no  rest,  and  which  is  there- 
fore in  more  need  of  guides  patiently  trained.     We 
would  by  no  means  revive  the  monastic  seclusion 
of    the   earlier    church.     Our    theological    students 
may  and   should   sally  forth   on  errands  of  mercy 
to  the  poor,  should  interest  themselves  in  Sabbath 
schools  and   the   circulation  of  religious  tracts,  and 
go  out  into  promiscuous  society  often  enough    to 
preserve  their  minds  in  tone,  to  keep  their  thoughts 
from   spoiling    '  like    bales   unopened    to   the  sun.' 


XXXVl 

^  But  the  bane  of  the^^re^nt  age  is  a  prurient  incli- 
j  nation  to  that  which  is  directly  and  exclusively 
/practical.  Not  the  Tialf  nor  the  third  of  a  Semi- 
nary year  should  be  spent  in  these  outward  walks 
of  beneficence.  The  business  of  theological  students 
is  not  now  to  preach  the  gospel,  but  to  qualify 
themselves  for  preaching  it  hereafter.  At  this  time 
they  have  facilities  which  they  will  find  at  no  other 
period  for  enriching  their  treasuries  with  pearls  of 
great  price  ;  and  if  they  sacrifice  their  present  privi- 
leges to  the  miscellaneous  employments  of  common 
life,  they  are  like  the  mower  who  does  in  the  sun- 
shine the  work  of  a  cloudy  day,  or  the  orchardist 
who  leaves  the  root  of  the  tree  to  decay  while  he 
strives  to  invigorate  the  branches. 

But  although  the  Seminary  student  is  called  to 
spend  his  time  in /severe  thought^  and  is  therefore 
deprived  of  some  opportunities  for  practical  useful- 
ness, he  is  yet  furnished,  in  the  direct  line  of  his 
vocation,  with  other  opportunities  of  rare  promise. 
For  his  want  of  intercourse  with  promiscuous 
society,  he  is  more  than  compensated  by  his  facility 
of  exert ing^an  influence  «pott~a-«ele€t.and,^jQQOSt 
impoTtant  circle,  the  future  ministers, of  the  cross. 
In  prepariri^_ himself  for  his  office,. he  comes  into 
lily  contact  with  Christian  scholars  w^hgijare  the 
^imense^  spirit  of  the  churches) and  on  the  shaping 
of  whose  character  depends  under  God  the  moral 
state  of  the  community.  He  may  double  his  im- 
provement by  sharing  it  with  a  hundred  men  who 
are  to  be  the  spiritual  guides  of  a  hundred  churches. 
He   may  find   a   vent   for   his  own   benevolence   in 


xxxvu 


striving  to  elevate  the  literary  character  of  these 
defenders  of  the  faith,  and  tlms  preparing  them  to 
reach  a  more  influential  class  of  minds  than  they 
were  previously  aiming  to  affect.  He  may  he  the 
means  of  heightening  their  religious  aspirations, 
and  thereby  raising  to  a  more  exalted  standard  the 
piety  of  those  who  may  be  committed  to  their  spir- 
itual care.  His  duty  calls  him  often  to  address 
this  attentive  company  of  men,  whose  great  object 
now  is  their  own  improvement,  but  who  are  ex- 
pecting ere  long  to  take  the  oversight,  each  of  a 
thousand,  and  all  of  a  hundred  thousand  souls,  and 
through  each  of  these  promising  hearers  he  may 
hope  to  transmit  an  influence  over  whole  churches 
and  communities.  He  speaks  to  a  small  auditory, 
but  the  influence  of  his  well  digested  words  may 
be  communicated  to  thousands  whom  he  will  never 
see,  and  to  whom  his  name  will  remain  unknown 
until  the  day  when  all  his  hidden  beneficence  shall 
be  published  to  the  universe.  At  first  his  agency 
seems  to  be  hemmed  into  a  small  space,  but  at  last 
it  will  diffuse  itself  over  an  extensive  surface. 
Now  it  is  concentrated  like  an  aroma  of  the  East, 
pent  up  in  golden  vials  only  to  be  preserved  the 
longer  and  spread  abroad  the  more  widely.  The 
biography  of  Pliny  Fisk  illustrates  the  fact,  that  a 
theological  candidate  may  confer  an  essential  benefit 
upon  his  race  by  the  mere  influence  which  he  exerts 
upon  his  associates  in  study.  The  missionary  ad- 
dresses of  Dwight  and  Bridgman  and  Schauflier 
were  heard  by  a  few  men  ;  but  they  were  men^ 
and   the  addresses  were  heard^  and  the  energy  of 


XXXVlll 

them  was  retained,  and  borne  away  to  pulpits  and 
Sabbath  schools  and  Bible  classes,  and  will  we  hope 
be  working  amid  our  churches  in  the  next  genera- 
tion. The  student  often  desires  more  scope  for  doing 
good  than  the  Seminary  allots  to  him,  and, isjjp pa- 
tient of  his  three  lyears  of  durance  in  so  contracted 
a  sphere  ;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  will  ever  be 
promoted  to  a  station  where  his  words  and  still 
more  his  example  can  make  so  deep,  so  extensive, 
so  enduring  an  impress  as  in  this  narrow  enclosure. 
He  is  touching  the  chords  of  no  common  harp,  and 
long  after  he  is  dead  its  melodies  may  linger  amid 
the  arches  of  the  temple  of  God.  During  his  pre- 
paratory studies,  he  may  accomplish  the  work  of  a 
long  life,  and  if  summoned  to  his  reward,  like  the 
author  of  the  ensuing  discourses,  at  the  very  com- 
mencement of  his  professional  career,  he  may  go 
as  one  that  hath  set  in  motion  a  train  of  influences 
which  will  not  cease  till  they  have  stirred  up  the 
spirit  of  churches  in  distant  lands.  He  pants  for  a 
more  sympathetic  life  than  that  of  libraries  and  lec- 
ture rooms,  and  in  due  time  he  shall  have  it  ;  but 
for  a  season  he  must  be  an  intellectual  man,  and 
must  operate  with  refined  instruments  upon  choice 
minds.  His  light  must  remain  in  some  degree  sta- 
tionary, but  it  is  now  sending  abroad  divergent 
beams  and  will  irradiate  an  ever  widening  area. 
Restless  for  doing  good  ?  Complaining  that  he  has 
no  spring  to  benevolent  action  ?  Longing  for  a 
widened  thgatr^.jof,J.lsefulness  ?  Let_the_S^eminary 
student (schppl  his  hearOiirto  a  sympathy  with,  the 
discipline   to  which   God   has  called   him  ;  let  him 


XXXIX 

form  those  habits  which  will  make  him  through 
life  '  a  workman  that  iieedeth  not  to  be  ashamed; ' 
let  him  study  now  the  books  to  which  he  cannot 
have  access  hereafter ;  let  him  collect  the  materials 
here  which  he  cannot  find  elsewhere  ;  let  him  roam 
over  the  broad  fields  of  sacred  learning,  and  thus 
do  good  prospectively  to  the  multitudes  who  shall 
partake  of  the  harvest  which  he  is  garnering  up ; 
let  him  be  careful  and  faithful  in  his  criticisms  upon 
his  brethren,  speaking  to  them  the  truth  in  love, 
and  hearing  it  from  them  with  patience  ;  let  him 
stimulate  them  to  a  habit  of  self-denial  and  allure 
them  to  a  more  earnest  piety  ;  let  him  listen  to 
them  when  they  speak,  and  thus  encourage  them 
to  hope  that  their  words  are  not  in  vain  ;  let  him 
be  punctual  at  their  religious  gatherings,  give  im- 
pulse and  soul  to  their  societies  for  mental  and  spir- 
itual culture,  take  a  hearty  interest  in  their  corres- 
pondence with  missionaries  and  with  men  of  God 
in  distant  Institutions  of  learning ;  let  him  regard 
the  Seminary  as  a  whispering  gallery  whither  are 
wafted  all  the  cries  for  help  from  the  Caffrarian 
mother  and  the  poor  children  of  the  Hindoo  ;  let  him 
refresh  his  feelings  with  those  doctrines  which  the 
angels  desire  to  look  into  and  which  he  is  toiling  to 
imderstand  ;  let  him  show  forth  in  his  daily  conduct 
the  sweetness  and  beauty  of  Christian  truth  and 
live  as  a  representative  of  him  who  revealed  it ; 
thus  will  he  find  himself  on  no  barren  heath  which 
he  has  but  little  motive  to  cultivate,  but  in  a  para- 
dise of  benevolent  action,  where  he  may  sow  the 
good  seed  in  good  soil,  and   the  fruit  of  it  will  be 


xl 

scattered  throughout  the  world,  and  be  multiplied  a 
hundred  fold  in  this  life,  and  spring  up  again  in  the 
life  everlasting. 

The  distinctive  purpose  of  a  Seminary  education 
is  often  misapprehended.  This  purf^ose  is  to  obtain 
a  clear  view  of  jeligious  doct^iiie  Jn  jt£  nature.,aod 
relations,  an  a])propriate  feeling  wjth^re^a^^^ 
/  and  a  power  to  communicate  it  in  a  manner  coagru- 
\  ous  with  itself  and  with  the  mind  vvhich  is  to  receive 
\^.  T^his  clear  View  of  truth  involves  an  accurate 
acquaintance  with  the  Greek  and  Hebrew  Scriptures, 
with  the  history  of  doctrine  and  of  its  influences 
in  all  ages,  with  the  logicjaI.arrang;pmpnt  i\\uJL..j^fQof 
of  its  subordinate  parts,  and  the  relations  of^jijo 
the  scieiTceslirfd'l'he  pursuits  of  m§^i.  The  appro- 
priate feeling  in  view  of  this  truth  implies  both  a 
meditative  and  a  comprehensive  piety  ;  a  habit  of 
examining  each  doctrine  in  its  practical  bearings 
and  of  yielding  to  the  specific  moral  impressions  of 
each,  of  subjecting  the  conscience  and  the  heart  to 
the  influence  not  merely  of  a  single  class  of  moral 
principles  but  of  all  classes,  of  the  entire  circle  of 
ideas  which  are  comprehended  in  the  evangelical 
system.  Such  a  thoughtful  and  expansive  piety 
comes  only  from  a  persevering  application  of  the 
whole  soul  to  the  word  and  works  of  God  and  to 
his  mercy-seat.  And  the  fitting  expression  of  this 
piety  in  the  appropriate  enforcement  of  the  truths 
which  elicit  it,  implies  such  a  familiarity  with 
Christian  doctrine,  with  the  laws  of  mind,  with  the 
literature  of  the  world,  such  a  jliscipline  of  the 
heart,  intellect  and  physical  organs,  as  cannoM^e 


xli 

^tained    without    a  protracted   and    severe   effprt. 
Tlns~Tsllie~~pnrpos^^  at  a  Tlieological 

Seminary,  and  it  does  not  allow  that  within  the 
twenty-five  or  seven  months  devoted  to  it  ^  the 
scholar  shall  be  extensively  engaged  in  visiting  pro- 
miscuous companies,  in  teaching  the  secular  arts  or 
sciences,  in  working  the  machinery  of  popular  be- 
neficence. He  has  more  than  enough  to  do  in  being 
a  Mieeper  at  home,'  in  'studying  to  be  quiet  and 
attend  to  his  own  distinctively  appropriate  business,' 
in  reading  of  the  wants  of  the  world,  in  doing 
good  to  his  brethren.  The  design  of  a  Theological 
education  is  not  to  become  familiar  with  the  cus- 
toms of  society,  but  to  acquire  that  character  by 
which  in  subsequent  life  these  customs  will  be 
learned  most  rapidly  and  safely.  The  purpose  61  \ 
what  was  once  called  a  Divinity  College  is  not  to  \ 
teach  the  arts  of  politeness,  but  to  inspire  the  heart 
with  such  chastened  emotions  as  will  ripen  into,  and 
naturally  express  themselves  in  the  manners  of  a 
gentleman.^  It  is  not  the  great  o  bject~  of^u  c  Ka 
School  to  furnish  facilities  for  immediate  operation 
on  the  world,  but  to  educe  and  educate  the  powers 
for  their  highest  ultimate  influence.  Let  the  cFiar- 
acter  be  formed,  and  the  '  accomplishnQLanlS-i^f 
life  'wTmTe  acquired  withjess  difficully  than  is  sup- 
j)osed.  We  by  no  means  assert  that  the  student 
should  become  an  anchorite,  but  that  he  should  par- 

^  In  nearly  all  our  Theological  Seminaries  the  time  spent  in 
actual  study  is  not  more  than  nine  months  in  the  year,  so  that  the 
whole  three  years'  course  includes  nine  months  of  vacation  from 
sedentary  employment. 


xlii 

ticipate  in  the  general  movements  of  society  only 
so  far  as  conduces  to  the  happy  and  healthful  ab- 
sorption of  his  soul  in  divine  contemplations.  He 
should  not  confine  his  mind  exclusively  to  the  stud- 
ies of  the  School,  but  should  make  them  prominent, 
and  all  other  avocations  incidental  and  subordinate. 
His  life,  save  in  the  regular  intervals  of  recess  from 
the  exercises  of  the  Seminary,  is  to  be  meditative 
rather  than  publicly  active.  It  is  an  unwise  impa- 
tience of  discipline,  a  zeal  not  according  to,  but 
subversive  of  knowledge,  a  haste  to  be  in  advance 
of  his  merits,  which  inclines  him  to  omit  the  study 
of  Calvin  and  Turretin,  Cudworth  and  Butler,  Ne- 
ander,  Hengstenberg  and  Robinson,  for  the  sake  of 
some  rpracticar  agenci^s^twhich  others  can  perform 
as  well  as  himself^  an3_ne_cajn.  perform  at  some 
future  time  better  than  at  the  present.  The  fire- 
man may  do  some  good  by  stopping  to  adjust  a 
pavement  on  the  side-walk,  but  more  good  by  has- 
tening to  extinguisli  the  flames.  The  soldier  may 
perform  an  act  of  kindness  by  halting  on  his  march 
for  the  sake  of  cultivating  a  neglected  field,  but  his 
kindness  will  be  the  greater,  if  he  move  straight  for- 
ward to  the  battle  ground  where  the  safety  of  the 
nation  calls  him  to  stand.  A  candidate  for^th^^sa- 
gred'offic?  may  accomplish  something  for  his  Mas- 
ter, if  the  main  object  of  his  care  be  his  Music 
Class  or  his  Reading  Society  ;  if  his  vacations  be 
spent  in  services  which  exhaust  and  unfit  him  for 
the  duties  of  the  term,  and  if  his  term  be  spent  in 
preparing  himself  for  the  labors  of  the  next  vaca- 
tion, but  he  will  accomplish  far  more  of  permanent 


xliii 

value  if  he  dedicate  his  term-time  to  the  duties  be- 
fitting it,  and  his  weeks  of  recess  from  Seminary 
employment  to  such  occupahons  as  may  recreate^ 
and  refresh  his  spirit  forja  vigorous  renewal  of  his 
tpilsj  if  he  hide  himself  for  a  little  while  amid  the 
struggles  peculiar  to  an  inquirer  after  truth,  and 
learn  his  '  worldly  wisdom '  when  he  can  do  so 
without  sacrificing  his  punctual  observance  of  Sem- 
inary rules ;  if  he  persevere  in  digging  '  for  hid 
treasures'  even  till  the  noisy  world  forget  him  for  a 
season,  since  it  is  only  by  these_deep,  under-ground, 
.and_^uU_j:£Sjg.arche§^J^^  f  to 

bjiag.  ouiU^Jbj^^lXg^^^  oki     Un- 

less during  the  three  years  of  his  preparative  study 
he  lay  a  broad,  firm  foundation  for  his  theological 
science,  he  never  will  lay  it,^  but  will  erect  his  su- 
perstructure on  the  sand ;  whereas  the  practical 
tact,  the  familiarity  with  conventional  usages,  if  it 
have  not  been  previously,  will  be  hereafter  readily 
attained.'  In  such  a  nation  and  age  as  this,  one  of 
the  last  of  our  fears  should  be  that  men  will  become 
too  scientific,  and  will  eschew  the  common  busi- 
nesses of  life. 

V.  A  Theological  School  is  often  said  to  be  char- 

^  The  late  excellent  Mr.  M'Cheyne,  writing  to  a  young  student 
says,  **  Remember,  you  are  now  forming  the  character  of  your  fu- 
ture ministry  in  great  measure,  if  God  spare  you.  If  you  acquire 
slovenly  or  sleepy  habits  of  study  now,  you  will  never  get  the 
better  of  it.  Do  every  thing  in  its  own  time.  Do  every  thing  in 
earnest ; — if  it  is  worth  doing,  then  do  it  with  all  your  might. 
Above  all,  keep  much  in  the  presence  of  God.  Never  see  the  face 
of  man  till  you  have  seen  his  face  who  is  our  life,  our  all.  Pray  for 
others  :  j)ray  for  your  teachers,  fellow  students,  Scc."—M'Che)jnes 
Life,  Letters  and  Lectures.     Am.  Ed.  p.  30. 


xliv 

acterized  by  a  disproportion  in  its  appeals  to  the  va- 
ried sensibilities  of  our  nature.  There  is  indeed  some 
disproportion,  for  no  one  state  in  life  meets  all  the 
demands  of  the  soul,  and  our  full  discipline  requires 
that  we  pass  under  diversified  systems  of  influence. 
There  is  some  disproportion,  but  not  so  great  as  in 
many  other  spheres  of  duty,  not  so  great  as  in  the 
mechanical  employments,  nor  in  the  secular  profes- 
sions, although  greater  than  in  that  sacred  office 
which  for  its  freedom  from  one-sided  developments 
may  well  be  called  the  'good  work.'  So  far  as 
there  is  a  want  of  symmetry  in  the  influences  of 
our  Theological  Schools,  it  is  an  evil ;  for  when 
the  instincts  of  onr  nature  are  too  much  repressed 
tlR e  y  become  t  e  ve  r i s h,  a 1 1 d  d  i s t  u  r b  t  h e  e qu  an  i  m i t y  o f 
tlie  soul.  Piety  is  a  superstructure,  the  solidity  and 
the  beauty  of  wiiich  are  increased  by  the  soundness 
of  the  sensibilities  which  underlie  it. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  Seminary  life,  by  con- 
fining the  student  to  one  small  class  of  associ- 
ates, diminishes  his  regard  for  public  opinion  and 
repels  him  from  those  manly  recreations  which 
would  be  recommended  by  a  more  promiscuous 
intercourse,  into  an  unworthy,  a  puerile,  perhaps  a 
degrading  habit  of  thought  and  converse.  And  it 
has  therefore  been  proposed  to  dissolve  the  intimacy 
of  students,  to  separate  them  from  each  other,  and 
make  them  men  of  the  world  while  they  are  train- 
ii]g  themselves  for  the  church.  Such  a  separation, 
however,  deadens  the  enthusiasm  of  the  candidate 
in  his  appropriate  work,  dissipates  his  mind  when 
it  ought  to  be  concentrated  on  edifying  truth,  and 


xlv 

cuts  him  off  from  those  never  to  be  forgotten  friend- 
.^JBg^witkhis  co^^ 

toils  are  sweetened  and  his  soul  drawn  out  toward 
the  communion  of  the  saints.  It  is  indeed  easy  to 
dimmish  pam  by  destroynig  hie,  and  to  remove  the 
evils  of  an  Institution  by  giving  up  the  preponder- 
ating good  to  which,  in  this  world,  some  imperfec- 
tions must  be  incidental.  But  it  is  not  wise  to 
break  in  pieces  an  instrument  because  it  may  get 
out  of  tune.  Doubtless  the  student  may  become 
bashful  and  clownish,  and  may  slink  into  those 
moral  foibles  to  which  a  public  sentiment  would 
make  him  superior,  but  he  is  not  required  to  be- 
come so  much  of  an  eremite  as  to  lower  the  dig- 
nity of  his  mental  habits.  And  besides,  he  is 
encompassed  with  a  great  cloud  of  witnesses  ;  he 
is  in  daily  converse  with  Isaiah  and  the  weeping 
prophet  and  the  sweet  singer  of  Israel  ;  he  reasons 
out  the  purifying  demonstrations  of  Paul,  and  is 
melted  by  the  words  of  the  beloved  disciple,  and  if 
these  companions  cannot  elevate  his  social  tenden- 
cies and  make  him  feel  the  power  of  the  public 
sentiment  of  heaven,  then  his  one-sidedness  is  a 
want  of  sensibility  to  religious  truth  more  than  to 
the  opinions  of  the  world.  It  is  the  torpidness  of 
his  spiritual,  more  than  of  his  social  emotions.  It 
is  a  defect  of  symmetry  which  mere  evening  parties 
will  not  rectify.  It  is  not  removed,  save  by  prayer 
and  fasting. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  Seminary  student,  torn 
away  from  the  endearing  influences  of  home,  find- 
ing but  little  time  for  admiring  the  beauties  of  na- 


% 


xlvi 

ture  and  art,  immersed  in  intellectual  pursuits  amid 
a  company  of  young  men,  loses  and  learns  to  des- 
pise all  tenderness  of  emotion.  It  is  true  that  he 
may  exsiccate  his  sensibilities  by  never  considering 
'  the  lilies  how  they  grow,'  and  by  living  as  if 
there  were  no  birds  of  the  air  and  no  concord  of 
sweet  sounds.  But  this  would  be  his  neglect,  or 
rather  abuse  of  his  privileges.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  there  is  a  difference,  and  not  always  in  the  stu- 
dent's favor,  between  waking  up  in  the  morning  at 
the  bleating  of  the  sheep  on  one's  paternal  hills,  and 
being  roused  by  what  is  unhappily  called  the  alarm' 
bell  of  the  chapel ;  between  reclining  at  noon  under 
the  ancestral  tree  that  overshadows  the  well,  and 
being  driven  by  want  of  some  soothing  conversa- 
tion into  the  reading  room.  But  the  minister  was 
not  born  to  listen  always  to  the  soft  voices  of  his 
kindred  at  home.  He  has  stern  duties  to  perform, 
and  to  be  baptized  with  straitenuig  baptisms.  He 
must  grow  up  to  stand  alone.  He  must  cultivate 
the  manly  as  well  as  the  childlike  graces,  nor  in  his 
punctual  observance  of  rule  need  he  become  callous 
to  the  gentler  impressions  of  family  attachment. 
The  tones  of  his  father's  counsel  may  often  pene- 
trate his  study  walls,  and  he  may  seem  to  hear  at 
evening  the  whispering  of  his  mother's  prayers  ; 
and  the  sad  anticipation  or  the  sadder  remembrance 
of  his  parents'  dying  words  may  save  him  from 
hardness  of  heart.  He  may  receive  a  softening  in- 
fluence from  thinking  of  the  past  anxieties  and  the 
present  hopes  of  his  friends  far  away  ;  and  when- 
ever Providence  crowns  his  labors  with  success  he 


xlvii 

may  sympathize  with  the  touching  gratitude  of 
Epaminondas  who,  after  the  battle  of  Leuctra,  at 
once  thanked  the  gods  that  his  father  and  mother 
were  ahve  to  enjoy  his  prosperity. 

The  condition  of  ourjheobgicai^studem^  is  often 
lamented  as  that    of    sheep    without    a   shepherd. 
Thej^are   said    to  be  in  a  transition  state  between^ 
the  flock  and  tlie  pashu'^  and  deprived  of.  the  genial 
influences   of  each.     It   were   well,   indeed,    if  our 
Seminaries   of  sacred   learning   were  supplied  each 
with  a  distinctive  pastor.     We  plead  that  it  may  be 
so.     But   until   this   plea  be  granted,  our  students 
must,  as  in   fact   they  do,  regard   their  teachers  as 
their   spiritual    guides.     They    must   also    become^ 
pastors  to  themselves.     They  can   not  expect  pre- 
cisely  the  same  kind   of  clerical   oversight  which 
they  once  enjoyed.     '£heyhave   reached  a  crisis  in 
their  life.     They   have   burst   theirTeadThg-strings. 
They    must    regard    themselves    as,   in   one    sense,  j 
already  set  apart  to  the  office  of  a  bishop,  and  must  I 
create  for  their  own   souls  those   influences   which  fj 
are  provided  for  the  ordinary  laj^man  by  the  minis- J' 
ter^who  is  je|„,QYcr^jiHn^    The  disadvantage  under 
which   they  labor  in   the   want  of  one  whose  sole 
object  it  is  to  superintend  their  religious  interests, 
is  supplied  in  some  measure  by  other  agencies  op- 
erating upon  them,  aiid  need  not,   nor  does  it  in 
fact,  result  in  the  same  one-sided  development  which 
we  should  expect  in  a  less  privileged  condition. 

The  circumstances  which  have  suggested  the 
preceding  objections  to  the  partial  influences  of  a 
Seminary  lite,  have  also  excited  the  fear  that  such 


xlviii 

a  life  adaiinisters  jj^jtoijippsprt ioneJLgti>^»lu  to  the 
JpYgof  disli.a$;J.iori.  This  love  is  an  original  prin- 
ciple of  the  soul,  was  designed  to  be  an  antagonist 
to  the  desire  of  repose,  to  be  kept  decidedly  subor- 
dinate, and  to  be  used  as  an  auxiliary  to  the  love  of 
truth.  It  needs  not  to  be  expelled  but  to  be  regu- 
lated. In  all  conditions  of  life  it  is  fostered  ;  in 
some  more,  in  others  less.  In  men  of  intense  men- 
tal excitement,  and  men  familiar  with  illustrious 
names  it  is  peculiarly  active  ;  hence  more  obvious 
in  scholars  than  in  farmers.  It  is  most  easily 
excited  in  men  of  imaginative  minds,  hence  in 
poets  and  orators,  more  than  in  philosophers;  there- 
fore in  popular  preachers  more  than  in  scientific 
theologians.  It  is  most  highly  stimulated  by  forms 
of  outward  display,  by  sonorous  titles  and  imposing 
badges  of  office  ;  hence  it  is  more  inflammable 
among  soldiers  than  merchants,  among  candidates 
for  mitres  and  the  loftiness  of  bishoprics  than 
among  candidates  for  the  Puritan  pulpit.  It  is 
most  readily  enkindled  by  the  hope  of  some  specific 
honor,  for  which  there  are  many  competitors  but 
which  only  one  can  attain.  Hence  it  is  more 
active  in  the  jurist  awaiting  an  immediate  decision 
of  a  litigated  cause,  or  in  the  statesman  aiming  at 
an  ofiice  from  which  he  would  exclude  all  others, 
than  in  the  private  scholar  searching  for  the  truth 
which  is  open  to  all  ;  more  active  in  the  English 
or  Scottish  candidate  who  writes  his  theological 
essay  for  a  prize,  than  in  our  own  theological  stu- 
dents who  feel  no  stimulus  from  the  exclusive 
honor  conferred   by  a  gold  medal  or  even,  as  was 


xlix 

once  the  fact,  by  a  valedictory  oration.  It  may  be, 
although  this  is  a  sad  abuse,  more  energetic  among 
men  who  are  looking  for  an  influence  over  the 
spiritual,  than  among  those  who  aim  to  control  the 
temporal  hopes  and  fears  of  man.  It  is  more 
fervid  among  young  men  than  old,  among  youth 
collected  together  than  separated  from  each  other  ; 
among  them  if  near  a  mutual  equality,  than  if  so 
unequal  as  to  lessen  the  hope  of  competition. 

It  appears,  then^  ^hat^jiiere  ^re  ps y c h olo g ic aL, 
influences  of  a  Seminary  life  which  foster  the  emu- 
lous principle  ;  not  so  much,  however,  as  it  is  fog-, 
ferejS^m^soine  conditions,  but  more  Jhan  in  certain 
others.  Accordingfy,  there  have  been  instances  in 
which  the  love  of  distinction  has  usurped  the 
place  of  higher  motives,  in  the  mind  of  the  young 
theologian.  Here  and  there  it  has  crippled  him  in 
the  pursuit  of  truth  ;,for  truth  must  be  sought  from 
the  hearty  love  of  it,  and  not.  for  the  sake  of  the 
inquirer's  personal  fame.  Occasionally  it  has  dis- 
turbed the  balance  of  his  powers  ;  for  he  is  a 
disordered  man  who  loves  knowledge  more  than 
piety,  and  the  display  of  knowledge  more  than  its 
excellence.  In  certain  cases  his  health  may  have 
been  injured  by  the  intensity  of  his  desire  to  shine 
like  those  stars  which,  as  Bacon  says,  have  much 
admiration  from  the  world  but  no  rest  for  them- 
selves. Sometimes  this  feeling  has  carried  itself 
back  to  the  old  associations  of  college  life,  and 
prompted  to  the  forming  of  college  clans  and 
almost  to  the  arraigning  of  one  set  of  alumni  as  a 
kind  of  literary  banditti  against  those  who  did  not 


1 

receive  at  the  same  seat  of  learning,  what  they 
vainly  talk  of  as  their  liberal  education.  It  has 
also  now  and  then  engendered  the  spirit  of  envy,  a 
natural  though  not  an  inevitable  lesnlt  of  emula- 
tion, a  spirit  which  is  often  found  in  its  most 
virulent  type  where  there  is  the  faintest  desire  for 
honorable  distinction,  a  base  spirit  which  involves 
sin  in  its  essence,  and  therefore  is  no  part  of  our 
original  make  as  exhibited  in  Adam  before  he  fell, 
but  in  its  very  incipient  budding  is  a  fruit  of 
the  forbidden  tree.  The  vitiated  love  of  honor, 
whether  among  young  or  old,  is  a  fertile  source  of 
controversies  that  tear  and  rend  the  church.  It 
urges  forward  some  men  to  the  invention  of  novel- 
ties which  disturb  our  peace.  It  makes  other  men 
eager  for  the  resuscitating  of  old  things  which  are 
ready  to  die.  It  fires  one  with  a  zeal  to  become 
notorious  for  the  defence  of  a  heresy.  It  makes 
another  quick-scented  for  something  a  little  out  of 
the  way  ;  and  he  sinelleth  the  battle  afar  off,  and 
goeth  on  to  meet  the  armed  men.  '  Thebulis,' 
says  an  old  writer,  <  created  great  disturbances  in 
the  church,  because  he  could  not  attain  the  bishop- 
ric of  Jerusalem.'  '  Tertullian  turned  Montanist 
in  discontent  for  missing  the  bishopric  of  Carthage 
after  Agrippinus,  and  so  did  Montanus  himself  for 
the  same  discontent.'  *  Novatus  would  have  been 
bishop  of  Rome,  Donatus  of  Carthage,  Arius  of 
Alexandria,  Aerius  of  Sebastia,  but  they  all  missed, 
and  therefore  all  of  them  vexed  Cliristendom.' 

TJrie_und^ie^Jove   of  distinction,   then,   if  found 
among  candidates  ior  tfi¥  ministry,  rntist  be  a  gTiev^ 


-.-*.*?Wi>!T'*i?: 


li 

oils  fault.  By  £his  sinJej^hs.,McMttgdU  It  is  not, 
however,  so  commonly  indulged  by  them  as  the 
preceding  remarks  might  seem  to  imply,  ^t^is  not 
true,  that  so  many  of  them  are  yielding  to  the  tero^t- 
atioiis  of  hunor  as  to  the  allurements. of  repose.  It 
is  by  no  means  the  fact,  that  the  majority  of  them 
are  at  severe  painstaking  to  earn  a  name  which  may 
be  an  ornament  to  the  church  ;  that  they  are  put- 
ting forth  all  their  energies  to  qualify  themselves 
for  the  high  stations  which  they  were  made  to  fill, 
and  to  operate  on  the  most  important  class  of  minds 
which  they  are  by  nature  fitted  to  influence.  Many, 
many  of  them  are  guiltless  of  such  aspirations  and 
of  such  toils.  Often  does  a  student  glide  easily 
throu£[h  his  professional  course,  and  then  sink  into 
some  comparatively  low  and  narrow  circle,  when 
he  might  have  risen  to  be  the  spiritual  guide  of  an 
extensive  and  an  intelligent  community,  the  preach- 
er of  righteousness  to  minds  of  enlarged  compass 
and  of  permanent  influence,  the  translator  of  the 
Bible  for  a  whole  nation,  the  pioneer  of  the  church 
among  dark  tribes  of  men  whose  latest  posterity 
would  call  him  blessed.  It  is  far  from  being  an  un- 
due love  of  distinction,  which  prominently  character- 
izes the  members  of  our  Theological  Schools.  There 
is  more  reason  for  lamenting  their  want  of  a  proper 
attention  to  those  gifts  of  God  which  ought  to  be 
laboriously  developed  ;  their  want  of  a  true  regard 
for  excellence  whatever  and  wherever  it  be  ;  their 
want  of  a  fitting  impulse  to  exert  an  elevating 
power,  not  merely  over  a  single  parish,  but  over  a 
whole  land.     In  our  schools  of  the  prophets  there 


lii 

is  not  enough  of  effort  to  turn  every  constitutional 
principle  into  what  it  ought  to  be,  an  incentive  to 
virtue  ;  to  make  the  natural  love  of  esteem  blend 
its  own  influence  with  the  nobler  influence  of  good 
will  to  men  ;  to  direct  the  emulous  principle,  when 
repressed  within  its  prescribed  limits,  into  the  chan- 
nel of  the  desire  to  glorify  Him  to  whom  all  our 
sensibilities  should  be  subservient.  The  psycho- 
logical temptations,  then,  which  these  Schools  pre- 
sent to  the  sense  of  honor,  have  proved  far  less 
effective  than  they  would  have  been,  if  their  force 
were  not  blunted  by  the  native  love  of  ease. 

Besides,  there  are  'moral  influences  of  a  Seminary 
life  which  are  a  counterpoise  to  its  natural  tempta- 
tions, and  allay  the  undue  excitement  of  a  love  of  dis- 
tinction. It  inspires  the  student  with  a  loftier  motive 
than  that  of  his  own  fame.  It  unveils  the  beauty  of 
sacred  truths,  and  allures  to  their  study  by  the  serene 
pleasure  which  they  impart  to  all  who  will  forget 
their  own  littleness  in  that  which  only  is  great.  It 
interests  the  student  in  looking  for  the  glory  of  the 
Spirit  of  truth,  and  he  who  can  fasten  his  eye  upon 
his  own  rush-light  amid  the  effulgence  of  the  Sun 
of  righteousness,  hath  but  little  honor  in  reserve  for 
him,  seek  it  as  he  may.  The  Seminary  course  pre- 
sents to  the  student  one  impressive  volume  of  doc- 
trine which  convinces  him  that  he  who  would  be 
first  must  be  last,  and  he  who  would  save  his  name 
must  be  willing  to  lose  it.  It  represents  to  him  the 
very  nature  of  his  anticipated  profession,  as  requir- 
ing that  one  who  would  become  a  master  in  Israel 
must  be  and  remain  like  a  little  child ;  as  making  it 


liii 

certain  that  if  ajnin^terjeek^^^ 
that  which  deservespraiggjjind  aim  to  display  ge- 
nius and  learning  rather  than  to  have  humility  and 
faith,  then  will  his  fame,  even  if  he  acquire  it,  be- 
come infamous.  The  Seminary  life  binds  together, 
in  the  same  cause  and  with  the  same  intent,  a  com- 
pany of  men  who  have  the  same  recollection  of  past 
deliverances  and  the  same  hope  of  future  blessed- 
ness, and  each  of  whom  receives  good  from  every 
new  attainment  of  his  brother.  It  assembles  them, 
morning  and  evening,  to  blend  their  voices  as  one  in 
the  hymn  of  praise  and  their  hearts  in  the  accents 
of  prayer.  It  calls  them  to  bow  the  knee  together 
in  the  social  circle,  and  in  the  presence  of  One  who 
took  little  children  in  his  arms  and  blessed  them, 
and  to  sit  together  around  the  table  of  that  Servant 
of  servants  who  washed  his  disciples'  feet  on  the 
evening  before  his  bearing  his  cross  toward  Calvary. 
True,  the  human  heart  is  depraved  enough  to  burst 
through  all  these  cords  of  brotherly  attachment, 
and  to  plunge  on  in  the  selfish  chase  for  an  apple  of 
discord.  True,  there  is  a  tendency  of  all  created 
things  downward,  as  Adam  fell  from  Paradise,  and 
Satan  like  lightning  from  heaven  ;  but  the  candi- 
date for  the  ministry,  who  can  repine  when  his  fel- 
low candidates  become  more  useful  or  more  prom- 
ising than  himself,  abuses  the  moral  influences  of 
his  station,  and,  instead  of  making  nature  an  aid  to 
grace,  distorts  the  privileges  of  grace  into  the  ser- 
vice of  a  corrupted  nature. 

There  are,  as  we  perceive,  some  disproportions  in 
the  influences  of  a  Seminary  course.     It  is  possible 


liv 

to  make  them  pander  to  sin  ;  but  except  the  pasto- 
ral office,  there  is  no  state  where  the  disproportion 
is  so  clearly  in  favor  of  holiness.  The  perfecting 
orffiie^student's  whole  character  is  his  professed 
aim.  Religious  thought  and  feeling  is  his  business, 
from  which  he  has  no  inconsistent  avocation.  The 
truths  which  he  studies  are  as  various  as  the  char- 
acter and  the  works  of  God,  and  are  accurately- 
adjusted  to  all  the  powers  and  all  the  emotions  of 
man.  They  are  an  exuberant  provision  of  stim- 
ulants and  sedatives.  They  are  profound  enough 
to  humble  as  well  as  to  strengthen  his  understand- 
ing, and  thus  make  him  wise.  They  are  immense 
and  infinite,  as  high  as  deep,  and  thus  they  expand 
his  imagination.  They  animate  his  hope,  for  they 
give  foretastes  of  the  richest  joys.  They  arouse 
his  fear,  for  they  portray  the  direst  evils  from  neg- 
lecting them.  They  command  his  reverence,  for 
they  are  the  truths  to  which  all  the  other  sciences 
pay  tribute.  Botany  and  chemistry;  and  geology 
and  natural  history  maii:e'  all  their  earthly  uses 
subordinate  to  tfie^^^  of  theological  "doc- 

trine. Even  astronomy,  sublime  as  it  is,  serveT~as 
the  star  in  the  east  to  guide  wise  men  to  the  scene 
of  the  babe  of  Bethlehem.  These  purifying  truths 
are  the  objects  of  his  constant  familiarity.  The 
right  study  of  them  demands,  as  well  as  gives  a 
spirit  in  accordance  with  them.  They  cannot  be 
seen  in  their  full  beauty  without  the  spiritual  eye. 
Neither  can  they  be  preached  in  their  full  power 
without  a  spiritual  voice.  Earnest  piety,  then, 
must  be  desired  by  the  young  theologian  as  his  first 


Iv 

good,  for  it  is  an  instrument  by  which  he  learns, 
and  learns  to  use,  tlie  doctrines  which  in  their  turn 
make  his  piety  the  more  earnest.     His  success   in 
his  work  depends  on  his  devotion,  and  his  devotion 
is  increased  by  his  success.     His  i n te|^^st^ i s  duty ,  U> 
and  duty  is  his  interest.     God  has  d one ^ g J^^ t  things 
for  him  by  calling  him  to  the  ministry,  and  there  I 
are  great  tliiugs  in  store  for  him   in  an  oilice  so  im-  I 
pressive,   in  a  world   and   in  an   age  so   impressible* J 
He  is  now  on  the  threshold  of  the  tem})le,  looking 
at  what  is,  and   what  has  been,  and  what  is  to  be. 
It   must   be  then,  that  an   undevout   theologian   is 
mad.     Let  another  take  his   bishopric,  if  he  do  not 
feel  the   influences  of  his   vocation   pressing   upon 
him  from  all  sides  to  all  good  ;  if  he  do  not  go  on 
from   strength  to  strength,  overcoming  sin  after  sin, 
and  adding  grace  to  grace,   untd  he  appear  in   Zion 
before  God. 

If  the  moral  danger  of  our  Theological  Semina- 
ries were  more  imminent  than  it  is,  they  would  still 
deserve  to  be  encouraged.  It  is  often  needful  for 
men  to  engage  in  perilous  duties,  and  expose  them- 
selves to  temptation  for  the  sake  of  shielding 
others  from  sin.  The  conscience  of  the  miner  may 
require  him  to  sink  him'seTnarTeTow"  the  regions 
of  light,  and  forfeit  many  religious  privileges  which 
are  enjoyed  in  the  sunshine  ;  that  of  the  mariner 
may  justify  him  in  sailing  beyond  the  sight  of 
school-houses  and  sanctuaries,  into  climes  and  under 
influences  which  tend  to  enervate  his  moral  sensi- 
bilities ;  that  of  the  clergyman  may  impel  him  to  t  Mi 
read  many  volumes  whose  unresisted  tendency  is  to  * '  « 


Ivi 

\h/^  " "^^'•"iiiiUfi  ,  ilitlft ifjailh  ,.if^.f/'>.4hfai fiff.T'^  ;   that  of  the 

missionafy  n;Lav  constrain  hnn  to  expatriate  himself 
from  Christian  society,  and  mingle  with  men  whose 
influence  is  in  itself  debasing,  amid  scenes  which 
present  strong  temptations  to  sin.  These  are  the 
sorest  of  self-denials,  but  they  are  justified  whea 
needed.     Allurements  to  evil  are  not  necessarily  in- 

■V.-  •    jJv:;,--^-*^ 

jurious.  They  do  not  enforce  a  guilty  compliance. 
They  will,  by  being  resisted,  fortify  the  characiijf 
and  Hiigiueut  its  religious  power.  The.y..ax!§_some- 
timos  deinaiided  for  the  welfare  of  the  worldjand  it 
is  expedient  that  a  few  should  suffer  the  severe 
conflicts  with  temptation,  rather  than  that  a  multi- 
ude  should  be  inveigled  into  ruin.  Our  Theologi- 
cal Schools  even  if  they  were  more  perilous  than 
they  are,  would  be  demanded  by  the  necessities  of 
the  church.  They  are  wanted  to  discipline  and  in- 
vigorate, to  enlarge  and  enrich  the  intellect  of  good 
men,  to  excite  a  professional  enthusiasm  without 
which  the  ministry  becomes  indolent  and  unfaithful, 
to  provide  a  thesaurus  from  which  Christians  in 
common  life  may  draw  timely  aid,  to  quicken  the 
progress  and  amplify  the  field  of  sacred  learning. 
Forty  years  ago  a  country  merchant  prefaced  a  mu- 
nificent bequest  to  a  Theological  School,  with  the 
somewhat  affluent  words,  '  Whereas  the  cause  of 
Christianity  may  be  essentially  promoted  by  en- 
couraging a  (ew  young  men,  eminently  distinguished 
by  their  talents,  industry  and  piety,  to  continue 
their  theological  studies  and  literary  researches,  at 
an  Institution  where,  with  the  assistance  of  able 
Professors,   they  may  enjoy  the  singular  advantage 


Ivii 

of  exploring  a  public  library  abounding  in  books  on 
general  science  and  richly  endowed  with  rare  and 
costly  writings,  in  various  languages,  on  subjects 
highly  interesting  to  the  cause  of  sacred  truth,  my 
will  further  is,'  etc.  etc.  Such  a  comprehensive 
interest  in  the  progress  of  truth  is  more  needful 
now  than  ever.  Crowds  of  foreign  emigrants, 
needing  the  Gospel,  press  on  our  pathway,  iden- 
tify the  cause  of  Home  with  that  of  Foreign  Mis- 
sions, and  require  us  to  augment  the  number  of 
men  who  shall  evangelize  other  nations  within  our 
own  borders.  The  alarming  rapidity  with  which 
our  national  possessions  are  extended,  our  unprece- 
dented facilities  for  influence  over  distant  lands,  the 
accelerating  progress  of  our  laymen  in  the  arts  and 
sciences,  create  a  necessity  for  more  and  better 
teachers  than  have  hitherto  adorned  our  pulpits. 
The  great  questions  that  agitate  the  public  mind 
are,  in  their  fundamental  character,  theological. 
They  are  the  questions  of  marriage  and  divorce,  of 
capital  punishment,  of  war,  of  temperance,  of  sla- 
very, of  the  political  value  of  the  Sabbath,  of  the 
need  of  government  in  the  State,  in  schools,  in 
families  even,  of  the  ultimate  standard  of  faith,  of 
the  respect  due  to  the  language  of  the  Bible,  ijg^ 
who  would  be  a  patriot  in  our  day  must  be  a  theo- 
Jogian,  and  they  who  teach  our  rising  ministry  must 
send  abroad  men  who  can  grapple  with  the  ethical 
difficulties  of  politicians  and  can  instruct  the  lead- 
ers of  the  people. 

But  while   the   times  demand   a  more  thorough 
training  of  ministerial   candidates   than   has  been 


Iviii 

previously  reqniredj  they  render  it  the  more  diffi- 
cult for  the  solitary  pastor  to  superintend  this 
training.  They  accumulate  upon  him  an  unwonted 
amount  of  parochial  labor,  and  task  his  powers  to 
the  utmost,  in  providing  for  the  mental  wants  of 
himself  and  his  parishioners.  Modern  theolog^ians 
cannot  be  appropriately  disciplined,  save  in  connec- 
tion with  large  libraries,  in  the  companionship  of 
Equals  with  whom  their  minds  may  come  in  ani- 
rnating  and  invigorating  collision,  under  the  ^ar- 
^ianship  of  teachers  who  distribute  the  various 
aepartments  of  theology  among  themselves,  anSTby 
this  division  of  labor  are  qualified  to  instruct,  each 
fin  a  single,  limited  sphere,  more  accurately  and 
faithfully  tKH^tRey'^  could  do,  i f  each  wire  '  to 
comprehend  in  his  survey  the  entire  domain  of 
theological  learning.  The  competent  instruction  of 
a  student  in  the  whole  circle  of  sacred  science,  by 
one  man  who  is  immersed  in  the  practical  details 
of  the  pastoral  office,  would  require  that  man  to  be 
a  giant  such  as  we  cannot  expect  until  the  day  of 
miracles  return.  A  course  of  discipline,  then, 
which  God  has  made  needful  for  the  strength  of 
his  church,  he  has  not  environed  with  such  moral 
difficulties  as  overbalance  its  good  results.  If  these 
difficulties  were  more  fearful  than  they  are,  they 
should  be  met  and  overcome,  for  the  consolidating 
of  the  faith  of  him  who  is  commanded  to  be  not  a 
novice,  for  the  defence  of  a  church  that  is  assailed 
on  her  outposts  and  at  her  citadel  and  is  crying  for 
strong  men  to  rescue  her  in  the  name  of  the  Lord, 
for  the  glory  of  Him  who  promises  to  be  with  his 


lix 

ministers  alway  even  in  their  sharpest  conflicts. 
But  the  moral  danger  of  onr  Theological  Schools 
is  extensively  overrated.  Their  spiritual  state  is 
indeed  alternately  brightened  and  darkened  by  that 
of  the  churches  from  which  they  receive  their 
students,  and  is  too  seldom  like  the  light  of  Goshen 
shining  serene  amid  the  surrounding  darkness  ;  but 
it  is  not  so  beclouded  as  to  discourage  the  friends 
of  an  earnest  piety  or  to  dim  the  hopes  of  those 
who  look  for  great  things  in  our  Israel.  The  sober 
truth  is,  that  as  the  well-watered  plains  of  Sodom 
furnished  motives  to  virtue,  and  the  garden  of  Eden 
presented  allurements  to  sin,  so  a  Theological  Sem- 
inary and  even  a  church  exert  influences  which 
may  confirm  the  soul  in  holiness  or  vitiate  its  sensi- 
bilities. No  strange  thing  has  happened  to  these 
institutions  ;  they  are  a  part  of  a  great  system  of 
agencies  which  result  in  far  more  good  than  evil  ; 
the  foibles  connected  with  them  in -this,  imperfect^ 
world  call  for  our  penitence  and  submission,  but 
the  superior  benefits^ flowi^  elicjt  pur 

deeper  gratitude  for  the  past  and  onr  more  confiding, 
hope  for  the  future.     Let  no  man  confine  his  vision 
to  the  dark  spots  on  the  sun's  disk.    Charity  hopelh 
all  things. 


MEMOIR. 


There  are  two  classes  of  youthful  productions  which 
will  always  attract  greater  interest  than  is  authorized  by 
their  intrinsic  value.  One  class  comprise  the  effusions 
of  children  whose  physical  system  becomes  a  prey  to  their 
mental  precocity,  and  whose  premature  death  imparts  a 
pleasing  sadness  to  their  expressions  *'  too  old  for  child- 
hood." The  other  class  comprise  the  juvenile  efforts  of 
those  whose  matured  life  has  been  full  of  honors,  and  the 
excellence  of  whose  manhood  has  lent  a  charm  to  the  es- 
says of  their  minority.  When  Benjamin  Franklin  was  in 
his  fourteenth  year,  he  composed  two  ballads,  printed 
them  with  his  own  hands,  and  went  around  the  streets  of 
Boston,  selling  them  for  his  brother  James  to  whom  he 
had  been  apprenticed.  One  of  them  was  in  relation  to  a 
shipwreck,  the  other  to  a  piracy ;  both  of  them  were,  in 
his  own  words,  ''  wretched  stuff,  written  in  the  common 
street-ballad  style  ;  "  yet  if  some  carrier  of  a  penny  news- 
paper in  Boston,  could  now  find  these  doggerel  rhymes,  he 
would  make  his  fortune  by  hawking  them  around  the 
same  streets  where  their  author  sold  them  for  a  pittance, 
and  even  that  for  the  benefit  of  his  elder  brother.  We 
are  interested  in  inverting  the  spy-glass,  and  making  the 
objects  appear  small  and  remote,  which  we  know  to  be 
2 


14  MSMOIR. 

large  and  near.  As  we  love  to  imagine  the  future  great- 
ness of  a  mind  that  promises  more,  perhaps,  than  it  will 
ever  perform,  so  we  love  to  examine  the  incipient  efforts 
of  a  mind  that  has  performed  more  than  it  originally 
promised.  On  the  one  hand,  the  writings  of  Mr.  Homer 
will  not  attract  the  interest  of  such  as  love  nothing 
but  the  marvelous,  and  are  pleased  only  when  am.azed, 
for  they  exhibit  no  unhealthful  precocity,  and  he  lived 
too  long  to  present  the  most  striking  and  dazzling  con- 
trast between  his  years  and  his  powers.  On  the  other 
hand,  his  productions  may  receive  but  little  regard  from 
those  who  can  discover  no  merit  where  the  indications  of 
youth  have  not  been  equaled  by  the  attainments  of  man- 
hood, and  where  the  seal  of  a  great  name  has  not  been 
Stamped  upon  essays  which  betoken  more  of  value  than 
they  contain.  But  although  he  did  not  live  long  enough 
to  invest  his  early  efforts  with  the  interest  which  they 
might  have  borrowed  from  the  high  scholarship  which  he 
promised,  he  was  not  called  away  until  he  had  exhibited 
some  mental  processes  which  may  well  receive  the  notice 
of  meditative  minds,  nor  until  he  had  made  himself  im- 
mortal in  the  memory  of  some  friends,  who  loved  him  be- 
cause they  knew  him,  and  who  will  honor  his  name  by 
the  continued  study  of  his  character. 

MR.  homer's    childhood. 

William  Bradford  Homer  was  born  in  Boston,  Jan- 
uary 31,  1817.  He  was  the  second  son  of  Mr.  George  J. 
and  Mrs.  Mary  Homer. ^  On  the  maternal  side,  he  was  a 
lineal  descendant,  of  the  eighth  generation,  from  William 
Bradford,  a  passenger  in  the  Mayflower,  and  the  second 
governor  of  Plymouth  colony.  From  the  age  of  five  years 
until  within  six  months  of  his  death  he  was  a  pupil  in  the 

*  See  Appendix  to  the  Memoir,  Note  A. 


MEMOIR.  1^ 

schools,  and  the  whole  course  of  his  pupilage  seems  to  have 
been  one  of  success.  "  Behave  as  well  as  Bradford  Ho- 
mer," was  a  remark  sometimes  made  by  his  teachers  to  his 
fellow  pupils.  The  severest  chastisement  which  he  ever 
received  from  an  instructor,  was  the  following  admonition, 
**  Bradford,  be  careful  to  keep  truth  on  your  side.  "  So 
deeply  was  his  spirit  wounded  by  this  reprimand,  that 
even  in  maturer  life  he  never  could  meet  the  reprover 
without  uneasiness.  He  was,  from  the  first,  a  truth-lov- 
ing boy,  and  the  mere  suspicion  of  unfaithfulness  to  his 
word  was  one  of  the  most  mortifying  punishments  he 
could  receive. 

It  was  a  principle  with  his  parents,  as  with  the  mother 
of  George  Herbert,  that  "  as  our  bodies  take  a  nourish- 
ment suitable  to  the  meat  on  which  we  feed,  so  our  souls 
do  as  insensibly  take  in  vice  by  the  example  or  conver- 
sation with  wicked  company  ;  that  ignorance  of  vice  is 
the  best  preservation  of  virtue,  and  that  the  very  knowl- 
edge of  wickedness  is  as  tinder  to  inflame  and  kindle  sin, 
and  to  keep  it  burning."  In  accordance  with  this  prin- 
ciple, great  care  was  taken  to  prevent  Bradford  from 
associating  with  improper  companions.  He  was  often 
sent,  of  a  holiday,  with  a  few  select  associates,  to  a  quiet 
rural  residence  in  the  vicinity  of  Boston,  and  was  furnish- 
ed there  with  such  amusements  as  nurtured  a  distaste  for 
the  dissipating  scenes  of  a  parade-ground.  He  was  kept 
a  stranger  to  the  indecorous  language  and  sports  so  fre- 
quent among  the  children  in  large  cities.  No  improper 
word  would  pass  his  lips,  because  none  would  enter  his 
ear.  He  was  unacquainted  with  the  vocabulary  of  vice, 
and  when  he  afterwards  read  it  in  Shakspeare,  he  read 
it  with  the  simple-hearted  innocence  of  a  child.  He 
preserved,  through  life,  the  same  unsophisticated  spirit. 
His  words,  his  manners,  and  his  whole  appearance  proved 
him  to  be  guileless   and  untainted,  "  the  purity  of  his 


(I 


16  MEMOIR. 

mind  breaking  out,  and   dilating  itself,  even  to  his  body, 
clothes,  and  habitation." 

When  about  seven  years  of  age,  he  went  through  a 
private  course  of  exercises  in  elocution,  under  the  care 
of  Mr.  William  Russell  of  Boston,  and  early  acquired 
that  flexibility  and  distinctness  of  speech,  which  con- 
tributed to  his  subsequent  success  in  the  pulpit.  In  his 
eleventh  year,  he  was  sent  to  Amherst,  Mass.,  where  he 
spent  three  years  as  a  member  of  Mt.  Pleasant  Classical 
Institution,  and  afterwards,  with  the  exception  of  a  single 
twelve-month,  and  of  occasional  brief  vacations,  he  never 
resided  under  his  father's  roof  Whenever  the  boy  left 
home,  it  was  with  suppressed  tears,  and  for  a  day  or  two 
after  his  arrival  at  the  institution,  he  was  sorely  and  sadly 
homesick.  For  days  before  the  close  of  his  term,  his 
heart  would  leap  for  joy  at  the  thought  of  revisiting  his 
friends ;  and  when,  with  elastic  step,  he  had  alighted 
from  the  stage-coach  at  his  parents'  door,  he  entered  the 
house  with  boundings  of  heart  and  brought  hilarity  with 
him.  In  the  words  of  his  father,  ''  to  have  seen  his  glad 
and  happy  countenance  on  meeting  his  friends,  after  a 
few  months'  separation  from  them,  would  have  moved  the 
heart  of  a  stoic."  That  he  retained  his  innocent  dispo- 
sitions during  so  long  continued  an  exile  from  his  kindred, 
is  one  sign  of  the  excellence  of  his  moral  temperament. 
His  early  and  protracted  absence  was,  perhaps,  more 
serviceable  to  him,  than  it  would  have  been  to  ordinary 
children.  Had  his  attachment  to  home,  and  his  disposi- 
tion to  cling  around  a  few  intimate  and  choice  friends 
been  met  with  no  opposing  influences,  his  character  might 
have  been  deficient  in  the  masculine  virtues.  But  his 
residence  among  strangers  obliged  him  to  plan  for  him- 
self, and  counteracted  those  efleminate  tendencies  which 
are  often  encouraged  in  sensitive  and  confiding  children. 
To  the  stranger  who  noticed  his  pliant  manners  and  con- 


MEMOIR.  17 

ciliating  temper,  he  might  have  appeared  to  fail  in  manli- 
ness and  independence ;  but  his  intimate  friends  always 
recognized  in  him  •*  a  mind  of  his  own." 

It  was  in  August,  1827,  that  he  became  a  pupil  at  Mt. 
Pleasant,  and  his  tastes  were  never  more  gratified  than 
with  the  beauties  of  this  enchanting  spot.  Here  he  de- 
voted much  attention  to  the  cultivation  of  his  manners, 
and  became  a  gentleman  before  he  was  a  man.  He  ac- 
quired that  ease  of  address  and  gracefulness  of  action, 
which,  if  attained  at  all,  must  generally  be  attained  in 
early  life,  and  which  afterwards  secured  his  admission  to 
circles  of  society  inaccessible  to  some  clergymen.  Those 
minor  accomplishments  which  were  not  beneath  the 
notice  of  a  boy  at  eleven  years  of  age,  gave  him  an  influ- 
ence at  twenty-four,  which  others,  equal  to  him  in  un- 
polished worth,  could  not  exert.  Men  who  disliked  his 
doctrines  were  pleased  with  the  blandness  and  urbanity 
of  him  who  enforced  them,  and  his  delicacy  of  form  and 
attitude  would  recommend  the  severity  of  his  reproof. 
"I  like  him,"  said  one  of  his  hearers,  "because  he  moves 
on  springs." 

He  was  particularly  studious  in  the  Latin,  ancient  and 
modern  Greek,  and  French  languages.  Several  of  his 
essays  in  the  ancient  Greek  were  published  in  successive 
numbers  of  a  Juvenile  Monthly,  printed  for  the  pupils  of 
the  institution.  His  progress  in  the  modern  Greek  was 
still  more  flattering.  He  wrote  many  compositions  in 
this  language,  and  delivered  one  of  them  at  a  public 
exhibition,  when  about  twelve  years  of  age.  He  also 
conversed  in  it  with  considerable  fluency.  His  teacher, 
Mr.  Gregory  Perdicari,  a  native  of  Greece,  and  now 
United  States'  consul  at  Athens,  was  in  the  habit  of 
taking  him  to  various  families  in  the  town,  and  conversing 
with  him  in  modern  Greek,  thus  exhibiting  him  as  a  kind 
of  literary  show.  Mr.  Homer  often  alluded  to  this  parade 
2* 


18  MEMOIR. 

as  more  conducive  to  his  progress  in  the  native  language 
of  Mr.  Perdicari,  than  in  humility.  His  vocal  organs 
being  remarkably  ductile,  and  his  discipline  in  the  Greek 
and  French  pronunciation  having  been  thus  early  and 
exact,  he  afterwards  found  but  little  difficulty  in  catching 
the  sounds  of  the  German  and  other  languages.  The 
recommendations  which  were  written  of  him  by  his 
teachers  at  Mt.  Pleasant,  are  such,  that  if  he  ever  saw 
them,  he  must  have  been  mature  beyond  his  years,  to 
have  borne  his  faculties  meekly.  "  I  have  no  recollec- 
tion," says  one  of  them,^  "  that  during  the  three  years  of 
his  pupilage  at  Amherst,  I  ever  had  occasion  to  speak  to 
him  in  the  way  of  censure.  It  would  be  extraordinary 
indeed,  if  he  were  not  sometimes  found  in  fault,  subjected, 
as  all  the  students  were,  to  a  discipline  of  some  severity  ; 
but  if  such  were  the  case,  the  general  correctness  of  his 
deportment  and  amiability  of  his  manners,  have,  in  my 
mind,  suffered  no  shade  of  it  to  rest  upon  his  memory." 

It  was  at  Mt.  Pleasant,  in  May,  1828,  that  the  great 
and  radical  change  occurred  in  Mr.  Homer's  moral  feel- 
ings. There  was,  at  this  time,  a  general  religious  ex- 
citement among  the  pupils  of  the  institution.  The 
spacious  mansion  became  a  temple  of  worshippers,  and 
the  contiguous  grove  resounded  with  the  voice  of  prayer. 
Perhaps  at  no  place  is  there  more  of  sympathy  and  con- 
tagion, than  at  a  large  boarding-school  of  children,  and 
hence  the  religious  agitations  at  such  a'  school  need  to  be 
carefully  scrutinized  and  wisely  regulated,  or  they  will  be 
of  no  permanent  benefit.  Of  the  forty  boys  who  mani- 
fested symtoms  of  spiritual  life  during  this  revival,  not 
one-fifth  of  the  number  retained  their  religious  promise. 
It  is  to  be  regretted,  that  Mr.  Homer  has  left  no  very  spe- 
cific account  of  his  feelings  at  this  critical  period  of  his 

^  Francis  Fellowes,  Esq. 


MEMOIR.  19 

life.  His  letter  announcing  his  conversion  is  a  very  sim- 
ple one,  and  he  seems  to  rejoice  in  his  change,  not  so 
much  because  it  will  save  his  soul,  as  because  it  will 
please  his  father  and  his  mother  ;  and  to  be  anxious,  not 
so  much  to  persevere  in  the  Christian  life,  as  to  see  his 
brothers  and  play-mates  turn  to  God  as  he  has  done. 
Four  years  after  his  supposed  conversion,  when  he  was 
about  to  profess  his  religious  faith,  he  made  the  following 
statement  to  the  committee  who  examined  him  for  ad- 
mission to  the  church/  ''  I  was  much  distressed,  while 
at  Mt.  Pleasant,  in  view  of  my  sinfulness,  but  after  two 
or  three  days,  I  indulged  a  hope  of  pardon.  I  had,  at 
that  time,  different  views  of  myself,  of  God  and  of  Christ, 
from  those  which  I  had  previously  entertained.  I  felt  a 
love  for  my  Maker,  and  wished  to  devote  myself  to  his 
service.  I  began  to  delight  in  prayer,  and  in  the  Bible, 
which  seemed  to  me  a  new  book.  I  felt  anxiety  for  the 
salvation  of  others,  and  was  induced  to  converse  with 
them  on  personal  religion,  I  felt  reconciled  to  the  holi- 
ness and  justice  of  God,  and  that  it  would  be  right  in  him 
to  cast  me  from  his  presence.  Since  that  time  I  have 
had  occasional  doubts  with  regard  to  my  Christian  char- 
acter, but  have  had  clearer  views  than  ever  of  the  nature 
of  sin  and  holiness,  and  of  the  divine  perfections." 

Soon  after  his  conversion,  he  derived  great  benefit  from 
Spring's  Essays  on  the  Distinguishing  Traits  of  Christian 
Character.  ''I  used,"  he  said,  "to  take  down  the  book, 
from  its  particular  place  on  a  particular  shelf,  every 
Sunday,  and  bring  my  mind  to  its  severe  scrutiny  ;  and 
if  during  the  week,  I  was  tempted  to  sin,  a  glance 
at  the  book  on  the  shelf,  would,  as  its  contents 
frowned   through   the   cover,   deter   me."      One   of  his 

*  He  was  admitted  to  Park-street  church.,  Boston,  in.  December, 
1832. 


20 

letters,  written  about  this  period,  is  on  the  importance  of 
secret  prayer,  and  he  appears  to  have  commenced  his 
religious  life  with  excellent  plans  in  reference  to  this 
duty.  •  He  adhered  to  them  with  exactness  until  his  death. 
The  effect  of  his  conversion  upon  his  intellectual  char- 
acter was  marked.  He  became  more  manly  and  mature. 
He  also  became  more,  and  more  gentle  in  his  temper,  and 
more  ready  to  turn  the  other  cheek  to  his  smiting  play- 
mate. In  one  of  the  most  characteristic  letters  of  his 
childhood  he  writes  to  a  relative,  "  A  little  boy  from 
Boston,  whose  parents  I  believe  you  know  very  well,  but 
whose  name  I  believe.  I  will  not  mention  here,  a  few  days 
ago,  as  I  was  playing  with  him,  because  I  did  something 
that  he  did  not  like,  called  me  '  religious,'  thinking  that 
he  would  plague  me.  But,  in  fact,  it  was  one  of  the  best 
names  I  had  ever  received.  It  was  the  first  time  that  I 
ever  heard  any  one  call  me  so."  In  the  words  of  Robert 
Boyle,  "  this  trivial  passage  I  have  mentioned  now,  not 
that  I  think  that  in  itself  it  deserves  a  relation,  but  be- 
cause as  the  sun  is  seen  best  at  his  rising  and  setting,  so 
men's  native  dispositions  are  clearliest  perceived  whilst 
they  are  children,  and  when  they  are  dying.  These 
little,  sudden  actions  are  the  greatest  discoverers  of  men's 
true  humors." 

In  August,  1831,  he  left  the  school  at  Mt.  Pleasant, 
where  it  may  be  said  of  him,  as  Izaak  Walton  said  of  one 
before  him,  "  The  beauties  of  his  pretty  behavior  and  wit 
shined,  and  became  so  eminent  and  lovely  in  this  his 
innocent  age,  that  he  seemed  to  be  marked  out  for  piety, 
and  to  become  the  care  of  Heaven  and  of  a  particular 
good  angel  to  guard  and  guide  him.  And  thus  he  con- 
tinued in  that  school,  till  he  came  to  be  [accomplished] 
in  the  learned  languages,  and  especially  in  the  Greek 
tongue,  in  which  he  after  proved  an  excellent  critic." 


MEMOIR.  21' 

MR.  homer's    early  YOUTH,  AND  RESIDENCE  AT  AMHERST 
COLLEGE. 

The  biography  of  a  man  of  letters  may  often  be  com- 
prised in  these  words  :  he  was  born,  he  studied,  he  pub- 
lished, he  died.  Of  Mr.  Homer,  it  can  scarcely  be  said 
that  he  published  ;  for  he  shrunk  with  peculiar  sensitive- 
ness from  any  exposure  of  his  compositions  to  public 
criticism.^  There  is  no  remarkable  feat  of  his  perform- 
ance, no  foreign  travel,  not  even  a  personal  accident,  not 
so  much  as  the  overturning  of  a  stage-coach  in  which  he 
was  journeying,  nor  the  loss  of  a  book,  nor  a  week  of 
serious  illness,  nor  any  imminent  danger  or  hair-breadth 
escape,  which  can  be  mentioned  to  change  the  scene  in 
the  drama  of  his  life.  His  whole  biography  must  be  spun 
out  from  his  intellectual  and  hidden  existence.  It  is 
generally  said  of  him  by  those  who  watched  his  earlier 
years,  that  he  was  a  happy  and  a  faultless  boy.  Not  that 
he  was  free  from  sin,  but  that  the  graces  of  his  character 
so  won  upon  his  observers  that  his  foibles  were  less  dis- 
tinctly noticed.  Not  but  that  he  had  his  hours  of  trouble 
and  complaining ;  but  ordinarily  his  life  was  blithesome 
and  joyous. 

After  leaving  Mt.  Pleasant  in  August,  1830,  he  pur- 
sued his  classical  studies  in  Boston  until  September, 
1831.  The  succeeding  year  he  spent  at  Phillips  Acade- 
my, Andover,  Mass.  Toward  the  close  of  the  academical 
year,  he  was  appointed  to  pronounce  the  valedictory 
addresses  at  the  ensuing  anniversary  of  the  school.  All 
of  his  class  being  older   than  himself,  some  of  them  by 

*  He  wrote  several  anonymous  articles  for  the  newspapers,  and 
for  the  Shi-ine,  a  college  periodical ;  a  brief  review  of  Tappan  on 
the  "Will  for  the  Biblical  Repository,  and  a  few  Notes  on  the  poet 
Homer,  for  Professor  Fiske's  edition  of  Eschenburg's  Manual  of 
Classical  Literature, 


22  MEMOIR. 

six  or  seven  years,  and  most  of  them  being  far  more  manly 
than  himself  in  stature  and  appearance,  he  recoiled  from 
this  exercise,  and  endeavored  to  obtain  release  from  it. 
But  there  was  no  exemption  ;  and  with  heartfelt  pain  he 
appeared  on  the  platform  at  the  head  of  his  class. 

From  Phillips  Academy  he  removed  to  Amherst  Col- 
lege, which  he  entered  in  September,  1832.  Here  he 
felt  at  home.  This  was  the  spot  of  his  literary  and  reli- 
gious nativity.  He  loved  the  quiet  of  its  groves,  the 
richness  of  its  valleys,  the  graceful  curvatures  of  the 
mountains  that  are  round  about  it,  and  the  sacred  trains 
of  thought  that  are  suggested  by  the  neighboring  spires, 
the  still  villages,  and  the  river  that  winds  calmly  by  them. 
The  rich  scenery  of  the  place  had  a  benign  influence  on 
his  sensitive  spirit,  stored  his  mind  with  images  of  beauty, 
and  became  so  associated  with  his  labors  that  he  loved 
them  the  more  for  the  beauties  amid  which  they  were  per- 
formed. During  his  four  collegiate  years  he  resided  in  a 
private  house,  at  a  distance  from  the  college  buildings ;  and 
although  some  of  his  fellow  students  who  lived  in  those 
buildings  would  often  find  it  difficult  to  hear  the  prayer- 
bell  in  the  morning,  he  had  a  quick  ear  in  that  regard, 
nor  was  he  tardy  in  obeying  the  summons.  It  is  easy  for 
a  student  to  become  a  sincere  invalid  on  a  cold  morning, 
when  some  recondite  lesson  is  to  be  recited  ;  but  Mr. 
Homer  never  understood  the  conveniences  of  college 
sickness,  and  his  slender  form  would  press  its  way  through 
the  snow-drift  and  against  the  driving  sleet,  just  as  if  there 
were  but  one  course  possible  to  be  pursued,  and  that  the 
course  of  duty.  Says  Dr.  Humphrey,  the  late  President 
of  the  institution,  "when  Mr.  Homer  entered  college,  he 
sustained  a  fine  examination,  and  though  he  had  several 
worthy  competitors,  he  soon  took  the  first  rank  in  his 
class,  whrch  he  held  to  the  end  of  his  collegiate  course. 
This  he  did,  not  by  any  intuitive  and  mysterious  process, 


MEMOIR.  23 

but  by  diligent  application  to  study.  He  never  dreamed, 
I  believe,  that  he  was  a  genius,  even  in  his  Freshman 
year,  when  so  many  flatter  themselves  that  '  they  are  the 
people,  and  wisdom  will  die  with  them.'  Whatever 
shorter  road  there  may  be  to  the  temple  of  science,  he 
never  troubled  himself  to  inquire  for  it,  but  was  content 
to  toil  on  in  the  old  beaten  track.  He  made  it  a  rule  to 
get  every  lesson,  and  to  get  it  well.  I  doubt  whether  he 
ever  made  a  poor  recitation  while  he  was  in  college." 

"  In  the  forms  and  syntax  of  Latin  and  Greek,"  says 
Professor  Fiske,  "  he  was  more  thorough  than  is  common, 
even  among  those  generally  accounted  good  scholars.  Yet 
his  mind  never  seemed  to  rest  satisfied  with  a  mere  mastery 
of  his  author's  constructions.  He  had  a  singular  felicity 
in  penetrating  the  spirit  of  an  ancient  idiom,  and  bringing 
it  out  to  view,  and  commending  it  to  the  feelings  by  an 
appropriate  modern  phraseology.  When  he  had  failed  of 
making  the  full  analysis  of  a  construction,  and  did  not 
detect  all  the  elements  of  it  until  he  had  received  hints 
or  questions  at  the  moment  of  reciting,  it  was  sometimes 
delightful  to  notice  how  he  would  eagerly  seize  them,  and 
comprehend  at  once  the  force  and  significancy  of  the 
combination,  and  present  the  meaning  with  singular  per- 
spicuity and  elegance,  clothing  every  idea  with  a  fasci- 
nating drapery  at  the  very  instant  of  its  conception.  This 
could  not  fail  to  be  observed  by  his  companions;  perhaps 
it  was  more  fully  appreciated  by  the  teacher.  If  I  some- 
times helped  him  in  breaking  the  shell,  he  always  seemed 
to  find  a  sweeter  meat  than  I  had  tasted.  While  he  had 
a  strong  relish  for  poetic  beauty,  and  possessed  an  imagi- 
nation highly  active,  and  truly  rich  in  ideal  pictures,  he 
had  also  a  striking  fondness  for  exact  thought,  and  for 
lucid  order  and  symmetry  in  arrangement,  and  neatness 
and  accuracy  in  style  and  performance." 

In  Mental   and  Moral   Philosophy   he  took  a  pleasing 


•^-^^   at  THB         ^^ 

TTWTxrs'B.ST'rr 


^4  MEMOIR. 

interest,  and  some  of  his  essays  in  this  department  would 
not  have  dishonored  him  at  the  age  of  twenty-four. 
When  he  had  finished  Butler's  Analogy,  he  remarked, 
that  his  closing  lesson  was  but  the  beginning  of  his  at- 
tention to  that  book,  that  he  should  pursue  the  study  of 
it  as  long  as  he  lived  ;  and  it  is  an  interesting  fact,  that 
this  was  one  of  the  last  books  which  he  studied,  and 
among  the  last  notes  which  he  left  in  pencilling,  were 
notes  upon  his  favorite  Analogy. 

He  never  resorted  to  any  dishonorable  means  for  ob- 
taining the  favor  of  his  teachers,  but  he  treated  them 
with  spontaneous  affection  and  respect.  He  considered 
who  they  were  and  where  they  were,  and  honored  their 
office  as  well  as  their  character.  He  looked  with  utter 
contempt  upon  those  notions  of  smartness,  with  which 
young  men,  especially  from  our  cities,  are  often  possessed, 
and  by  which  they  are  led  to  disturb  the  order  of  college. 
When  any  youthful  hero  deemed  it  a  point  of  honor  for 
him  to  oppose  the  discipline  of  his  teachers,  he  was 
taught  by  Mr.  Homer  that  such  bravery  is  a  low  and 
craven  spirit ;  that  the  true  courage  of  a  student  consists 
in  getting  his  lessons,  and  if  one  wishes  to  do  some  great 
thing,  and  make  himself  known  as  superior  to  vulgar 
prejudices,  he  must  move  when  the  bell  calls  him,  and 
keep  his  door  closed  in  study  hours,  and  take  off  his  hat 
when  he  meets  a  superior.  The  refining  influence  of 
Mr.  Homer  upon  his  companions  in  college  was  gratefully 
recognized  by  them,  and  has  been  transmitted  through 
successive  classes  to  the  present  day.  He  breathed  the 
spirit  of  a  gentleman,  and  by  the  amenity  of  his  manners 
he  won  many  to  a  life  of  order  and  decorum. 

He  mingled  in  the  social  circles  at  college  with  chas- 
tened hilarity.  In  the  literary  associations  he  held  a 
conspicuous  place.  He  joined  in  their  debates  with  en- 
thusiasm, and  bore  the  conflict  of  opinion  with  marked 


MEMOIfti  SHP 

urbanity.  He  was  chosen  President  of  the  Athenian 
Society,  the  Chi  Delta  Theta,  and  the  Society  of  Inquiry, 
all  of  which  he  aided  by  his  generosity  as  well  as  zeal. 
He  had  much  of  the  esprit-du-corps  in  relation  to  the 
college,  and  appeared  to  study  not  more  for  his  own  good, 
than  to  advance  the  literary  character  of  the  institution. 
Several  brief  notices  which  he  published  in  the  news- 
papers, show  how  jealous  he  was  for  the  honor  of  his 
Alma  Mater.  He  early  endeavored  to  promote  an  inte- 
rest in  it  among  its  Alumni,  and  to  strengthen  the  tie  of 
brotherhood  that  united  them. 

No  pne  was  ever  more  sincerely  attached  to  his  class- 
mates than  Mr.  Horner.  Writing  from  Andover  Theo- 
logical Seminary,  he  says,  •'  I  love  Amherst  more  and 
more  every  day,  and  with  something  of  the  sensitive 
aflfection  of  a  homesick  child.  I  have  not  yet  removed 
myself  so  far  from  the  beautiful  associations  of  my  col- 
lege life,  but  that  I  can  truly  say,  that  *  distance  lends 
enchantment  to  the  view.'  The  little  items  of  difficulty, 
which  form  the  dark  shades  of  the  picture,  are  growing 
dimmer  and  dimmer,  and  the  outline  is  rising  in  graceful 
proportion.  I  look  back  upon  our  class  as  one  beautiful 
whole,  imperfect  without  its  imperfections.  I  may  find 
noble  spirits  here,  but  none  nobler  than  theirs ;  warm 
hearts,  but  nowhere  a  kinder  and  more  cheering  sympa- 
thy." 

Again  he  writes,  *'  I  assure  you  I  have  formed  no 
friendships  here,  (Andover,)  which  can  compare  with  the 
friendships  of  college  life.  There  is  no  sentiment  about 
this  remark.  I  love  those  old  associations  with  a  chaste 
and  manly  affection.  I  never  expect  any  other  scenes  to 
come  back  upon  my  mind  with  such  refreshing  power. 
Have  you  ever  begun  with  Freshman  year,  and  traced 
down  the  history  of  your  mind,  your  opinions,  your  inti- 
macies, to  the  very  last  ?  It  is  queer,  but  affecting.  I 
3 


36  MEMOIR/ 

rather  suspect  that  I  could  not  meet  a  man  who  was  grad- 
uated with  us  without  a  peculiar  grasp  of  the  hand,  and 
an  uncommon  throbbing  of  the  heart.  There  were  some 
men  in  our  class  whom  I  never  did  like,  and  perhaps  I 
never  can.  But  I  never  can  call  such  men  hard  names. 
I  rather  think  if  I  should  meet  such  a  one  now,  my  eye 
would  say  brother^  and  my  heart  would  beat  hrotheTf 
though  my  tongue  did  not  utter  the  word." 

Amid  all  the  rivalries  and  jealousies,  the  debates  and 
turmoils  of  collegiate  life,  Mr.  Homer  preserved  that 
sweetness  and  serenity  of  spirit,  which  the  religion  of 
Jesus  is  so  well  fitted  to  impart.  He  did  not  lose  his  love  of 
home,  a  love  which  seldom  exists  in  a  vicious  mind,  and  ill 
comports  with  the  envy  and  rancor  of  aspirants  for  colle- 
giate honors.  The  following  letter,  written  during  his  last 
year  at  college,  is  but  one  among  numerous  specimens  of 
the  pure  out-flowings  of  his  soul. 

"  December  13,  1835.  My  dear  mother, — I  presume 
that  you  were  at  Natick  on  Thanksgiving  day.  If  so, 
your  thoughts  were  undoubtedly  in  the  same  place  with 
mine.  Both  of  us,  though  absent  in  the  body,  were  pres- 
ent in  spirit  at  honie.  There  is  no  time  when  my  mind 
lingers  so  tenaciously  upon  the  associations  which  I  have 
left  behind,  and  I  am  so  ready  to  say,  '  O  that  I  had  wings 
like  a  dove,'  that  I  might  fly  away  to  mingle  with  them 
once  more.  I  could  not  forbear  the  recollection,  that  on 
each  of  the  last  two  anniversary  seasons,  there  was  one 
in  our  group  who  met  with  us  for  the  last  time.  The 
scene  was  participated  in  by  those  who  were  almost  dis- 
embodied spirits, — ^jast  lingering  a  moment  before  finally 
withdrawing  themselves  from  our  view.  I  was  speaking 
of  our  regard  for  home  being  enhanced  by  absence.  I 
have  sometimes  thought  that  the  principle  may  be  applied 
to  our  experience  respecting  that  better  home,  with  refer- 


MEMOIR.  !W 

cnce  to  which  we  are  *  strangers  and  pilgrims  *  here.  I 
know  not  but  that  it  may  be  a  visionary  idea,  but  it  is  one 
of  those  trains  of  thought  which  I  love  to  pursue.  It 
seems  to  me  that  if  we  ever  arrive  at  heaven,  when  our 
toils  and  sufferings  here  are  all  over,  our  enjoyment  must 
be  higher  than  that  of  angels  who  have  never  left  their 
Father's  presence.  To  them  he  can  say,  as  in  the  parable 
of  the  prodigal  son,  *  Son,  thou  art  ever  with  me,  and  all 
that  I  have  is  thine.'  But  we  have  just  arrived  from  our 
long  and  toilsome  pilgrimage.  Here  we  were  with  all 
our  cares  and  sorrows,  '  without  were  fightings,  within 
were  fears ; '  and  our  sole  comfort  was  found  in  the  antici- 
pation of  the  rest  that  was  in  reserve  for  us.  When  the 
anticipation  comes  to  be  realized,  and  we  find  how  infi- 
nitely the  reality  exceeds  the  expectation,  and  how  glori- 
ously faith  is  swallowed  up  in  sight,  it  seems  to  me  that 
our  joy  must  be  more  ecstatic,  as  our  redemption  is  more 
wonderful.  But  perhaps  this  is  unprofitable  speculation, 
and  I  was  led  into  it  before  I  was  aware.  It  is  sufficient 
for  us  if  we  do  keep  our  eyes  fixed  steadfastly  upward, 
and  our  souls  longingfor  a  release. 

I  thank  you  very  much  for  the  extract  you  sent  me  from 
the  Life  of  Parsons.  You  judged  rightly  in  supposing  it 
applicable  to  me.  I  have  wished  again  and  again  that  I 
might  recommence  my  Senior  year.  Every  day  seems  to 
augment  the  proof,  that  it  is  a  season  when  the  moral  im- 
pressions of  college  life  are  most  deep  and  permanent, 
when  the  religion  of  the  heart  is  assuming  its  shape  and 
character  for  life.  And  how  important  is  each  day  and 
each  year  becoming,  as  the  preparation  for  the  great 
work,  for  which  I  am  preparing,  approaches  its  comple- 
tion. Whatever  of  worldly  ambition  may  have  prompted 
me  hitherto,  should  here  be  cast  aside  as  an  unholy  and 
unbecoming  principle.  This  is  the  time  for  self-sacrifices, 
for  withdrawal  fi-om  the  world,  for  a  new  and  more  bind- 


28  MEMOIR. 

ing  covenant  with  God.  I  know  it  all,  I  can  write  it  all, 
I  can  say  it  all,  but  I  do  not  realize  it.  I  would  not  ven- 
ture to  lay  hold  on  the  ark  of  God  with  unholy  hands,  and 
yet  I  may,  unless  I  search  my  heart,  and  look  upward  for 
purifying  power." 

Mr.  Homer  was  graduated  at  Amherst,  in  September, 
1836.  The  valedictory  honors  of  his  class  were  assigned 
him,  though  he  had  repeatedly  expressed  his  wish  that 
they  might  be  awarded  to  another  person  whom  he  es- 
teemed more  worthy  of  them.  He  was  so  much  affected 
by  the  scenes  of  his  graduation,  that  he  failed  to  pronounce 
his  addresses  with  sufficient  strength  of  voice.  Soon 
afterward,  he  writes  to  a  college  friend,  "  I  had  long  an- 
ticipated the  day  of  our  graduation  as  a  solemn  and  over- 
whelming occasion  to  my  sensibilities,  but  the  anticipa- 
tion exceeded  the  reality.  There  was  too  close  and  too 
rapid  a  succession  of  exciting  topics,  each  of  which  occur- 
ring alone  would  have  been  sufficient  to  prostrate  me. 
My  mind  lost  the  discipline,  my  feelings  avoided  the  shock 
which  would  otherwise  have  resulted.  That  was  a  solemn 
hour,  when  we  stood  up  together  for  the  last  time,  with 
the  silver  cord  just  loosed,  that  had  bound  us  so  long. 
Men  would  not  look  upon  us  in  that  associate  capacity 
henceforward, —  God  would  so  look  upon  us  forever.  But 
to  us  and  the  interesting  audience  that  surrounded  us, 
that  scene,  and — hurrying  through  the  lightning-like 
course  of  time  which  would  ensue, — the  last  trumpet 
which  alone  could  call  us  all  together  again, — how  inti- 
mately connected  !     But  I  did  not  realize  it  at  the  time." 

MR.  HOMER    IN  A  REVIVAL  OF  RELIGION. 

On  a  Sabbath  morning  in  the  early  part  of  his  Fresh- 
man year,  Mr.  Homer  was  called  upon  to  offer  a  prayer 


MEMOIR.  ^9 

at  a  public  religious  meeting.  Being  youthful  and  diffi- 
dent, he  declined  the  service.  A  member  of  an  advanced 
class  rose  soon  afterward,  and  uttered  a  severe  reproof  of 
those  Freshmen  who  refused  to  take  their  part  in  leading 
the  devotions  of  the  students.  This  public  reproof 
wounded  Mr.  Homer  so  deeply,  that  he  could  not,  for  a 
long  time,  attend  the  Sabbath  morning  prayer-meeting 
without  uneasiness ;  and  so  different  was  he,  in  his  tastes 
and  education,  from  many  of  his  brethren,  that  he  did 
not  associate  with  them  so  much  as  his  higher  interests 
required.  Hence,  for  a  year  or  more,  he  was  less  active 
in  their  promiscuous  assemblies,  than  he  might  have  been 
wisely.  His  religious  life,  though  a  guileless,  was  yet  a 
hidden  one.  He  attended  with  conscientious  regularity 
the  Saturday  evening  prayer-meeting  of  his  classmates, 
for  with  them  he  could  feel  at  home.  But  in  his  Junior 
year,  he  began  to  emerge  from  his  retirement,  and  to  lose 
somewhat  of  the  sensitiveness  which  had  deterred  him 
from  conspicuous  effort.  In  November,  1834,  he  was 
deeply  saddened  by  the  death  of  his  classmate,  Mr.  P.  C. 
Walker.  He  did  not  lose  the  religious  influence  of  this 
bereavement  for  a  long  time,  and  it  gradually  prepared 
him  to  participate  in  a  religious  revival  which  occurred 
soon  afterward  in  college.  Among  the  documents  that 
he  preserved  with  especial  care  is  found  the  following 
paper,  which  is  marked  "  private,"  and  which  no  one  ever 
heard  of  before  his  death. 

"Amherst  College,  March  27,  1835.— The  Lord  has 
in  great  mercy  come  very  near  to  this  institution.  There 
has  existed  in  the  minds  of  his  children,  for  nearly  two 
weeks  past,  a  solemn  sense  of  the  presence  of  the  influ- 
ences of  the  Holy  Spirit  which  has  almost  prostrated  them 
in  the  dust.  Many  who  were  wandering  like  lost  sheep, 
have  been  once  more  gathered  to  the  fold  of  the  blessed 
3* 


30  MEMOIR. 

Redeemer,  and  have  had  restored  to  them  the  joys  of  their 
first  love.  The  operation  of  these  sacred  influences  I 
seem  to  have  felt,  stealing  its  way  through  the  adamantine 
casement  which  the  world  has  thrown  about  my  heart, 
and  waking  me  from  the  sinful  lethargy  which  has  so  long 
paralyzed  my  spiritual  energies.  I  think  I  have  had  some 
sense  of  my  own  weakness  and  vileness,  and  have  been 
led  to  prostrate  myself  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  to  seek 
for  pardon  and  for  grace  to  renovate  the  man  of  sin  within 
me.  I  pray  for  a  more  overwhelming  view  of  my  past 
criminality  and  worthlessness,  and  for  a  more  fixed  deter- 
mination to  consecrate  all  my  powers  to  God's  service,  to 
be  his  for  time,  and  his  for  eternity.  Believing  that  it 
would  be  for  my  own  spiritual  advantage  to  have  by  me  a 
written  covenant,  into  which  I  desire  solemnly  to  enter  in 
the  presence  of  God,  of  the  blessed  Redeemer  and  of  the 
Holy  Spirit,  I  pray  for  their  guidance  and  their  blessing, 
while  I  append  my  name  to  the  following  Resolutions  : 

Resolved, — that  Christ  and  his  cause  shall  claim  the 
first  attention  of  my  thoughts,  and  that  it  shall  be  my 
daily  prayer,  *  Lord,  what  wilt  thou  have  me  to  do,'  for 
the  honor  of  thy  name,  this  day  ? 

Resolved, — that  I  will  pray  more  fervently  to  be  deliv- 
ered from  that  devotion  to  the  world,  which  would  cause 
its  miserable  vanities  to  usurp  the  place  in  my  affections 
which  Christ  ought  to  occupy, — that  I  may  live  as  a 
stranger  and  a  pilgrim  who  seeks  a  city  yet  to  come. 

"  The  dearest  idol  I  have  known, 
Whate'er  that  idol  be, 
Help  me  to  tear  it  from  thy  throne, 
And  worship  only  Thee." 

Resolved, — that  it  shall  be  my  prayerful  endeavor  so  to 
aspire  after  holiness,  and  a  constantly  increasing  assimi- 
lation to  the  divine  character,  as  to  be  able  to  sympathize 


MEMOIR.  91 

with  the  Psalmist  of  Israel  in  those  spiritual  longings  so 
beautifully  expressed, — 'As  the  hart  panteth  after  the 
water-brooks,  so  panteth  my  soul  after  thee,  O  God.' 

Resolved, — that  I  will  be  engaged  in  no  occupation 
upon  which  I  cannot  ask  for  God's  blessing ;  and  that  I 
will  strive  to  make  study  a  Christian  duty,  upon  the  per- 
formance of  which  I  may  enter  with  humble  prayer  for 
the  divine  assistance,  and  for  the  acquisition  of  that  in- 
tellectual discipline  which  will  better  prepare  me  to  an- 
swer the  great  end  of  my  being. 

Resolved, — that  I  will  strive  to  have  my  intercourse 
with  my  fellow  students  a  Christian  intercourse  ;  that  my 
conversation  shall  evince  that  the  great  subject  of  religion 
is  uppermost  in  my  thoughts,  and  I  may  be  enabled  con- 
sistently to  recommend  a  serious  consideration  of  its 
claims  to  all  who  know  not  God,  and  obey  not  the  gospel. 

The  task  is  a  great  one,  and  the  responsibility  of  such 
solemn  vows  is  too  awful  for  a  weak  and  vile  worm  like 
myself  But  my  hope  is  not  in  an  arm  of  flesh.  I  look 
to  heaven  for  help. 

And  now,  Lord  God,  draw  nigh  and  witness  the  conse- 
cration. Blessed  Saviour,  seal  it  with  thy  blood.  Holy 
Ghost,  sanctify  it  to  my  heart. 

Signed,  William  Bradford  Homer." 

Mr.  Homer's  activity  in  this  revival  was  prudent  and 
cheerful.  He  not  only  forbore  to  make  unseemly  aggres- 
sions upon  the  tastes  of  his  comrades,  but  he  dissuaded 
others  from  making  them.  He  was  sagacious  in  his  plans 
for  obtaining  access  to  those  who  had  previously  been  im- 
pervious to  right  influences.  Those  who  were  unused 
to  the  stimulus  of  a  revival,  and,  from  their  temperament, 
were  in  danger  of  being  neglected  by  some  and  irritated 
by  others,  found  in  him  a  friend,  liberal,  generous,  affec- 
tionate, faithful,  unsparing.     The  following  letters  show 


32  MEMOIR. 

how  far  he  was  from  spiritual  indifference  on  the  one 
hand,  and  fanaticism  on  the  other.  To  his  mother  he 
writes  ; 

"  April  9,  1835. — I  presume  from  the  reports  that  have 
been  circulated,  that  you  have  been  anxiously  looking  for 
information  of  what  the  Lord  is  doing  for  us ;  and  I  am 
happy  in  the  confidence  that  you  are  among  the  mothers 
who  never  forget  to  pray  for  the  spiritual  prosperity  of 
this  institution.  Although  the  information  I  am  able  to 
communicate  is  not  so  cheering  as  I  could  wish,  and  the 
work  has  not  yet  assumed  that  marked  and  prominent 
character  which  would  render  publicity  expedient,  I  have 
felt  unable  to  suffer  you  to  remain  any  longer  in  uncer- 
tainty as  to  our  situation  ;  but  I  must  request,  for  reasons 
which  will  be  very  manifest,  that  you  do  not  permit  this 
letter  to  go  from  the  family,  and  that  no  further  use  be 
made  of  its  contents,  than  to  stimulate  Christians  to  pray 
that  we  may  have  a  more  powerful  manifestation  of  grace 
than  we  have  yet  experienced.  That  there  has  been  here 
for  some  weeks  past,  a  very  special  influence  operating 
upon  the  heart,  almost  every  member  of  college  can  tes- 
tify from  his  own  experience.  And  that  we  have  enjoyed, 
and  are  still  enjoying,  a  revival  of  religion,  in  the  strict- 
est sense  of  the  term,  no  one  who  has  witnessed  the  revi- 
val of  the  languishing  graces  of  God's  children,  and  the 
deep  humiliation  and  contrite  repentance  of  those  who 
had  wandered  far,  and  forgotten  their  first  love,  can  deny. 
Such  a  solemn  sense  of  responsibility,  and  such  a  spirit 
of  prayer  as  seems  to  have  pervaded  the  church,  I  have 
never  before  seen  exhibited.  Nor  are  we  entirely  desti- 
tute of  encouragement  to  labor  and  pray  for  the  conver- 
sion of  our  impenitent  fellow  students,  for  we  trust  there 
are  a  few  who  have  been  recently  brought  from  nature's 
darkness  to  the  marvelous  light  of  the  gospel.     The  sub- 


MEMOIR.  3SS 

jects  of  the  work  are  sufficiently  numerous  to  make  us  all 
grateful,  and  few  enough  to  impress  upon  us  the  impor- 
ta.nce  of  continuing  to  wrestle  in  prayer,  until  many  are 
brought  to  yield  to  the  influences  of  the  Holy  Spirit  in 
his  present  gracious  visitation.  I  believe  there  is  a  gen- 
eral determination  on  the  part  of  Christians,  to  persevere 
in  their  prayers  and  their  efforts  for  the  salvation  of  souls. 
We  are  in  an  extremely  critical  situation,  but  there  can 
be  no  doubt,  from  the  manifestations  we  have  already  had 
of  God's  willingness  to  bless  us,  that  if  we  will  but  con- 
tinue to  be  prayerful  and  faithful,  the  work  will  go  on 
with  still  greater  power.  That  we  may  be  prepared  for 
duty,  we  need  the  prayers  of  all  who  have  an  interest  at 
the  throne  of  grace.  I  presume  you  are  ready  to  inquire 
what  has  been  the  influence  of  all  this  upon  my  own  re- 
ligious feelings,  and  whether  my  heart  is  in  the  work.  I 
humbly  trust  that  it  has  been  blest  to  me,  in  tearing  me, 
in  some  measure,  from  my  attachment  to  the  world,  and 
aiding  me  in  an  entire  consecration  of  myself  to  the  ser- 
vice of  Christ.  It  seems  to  me  now,  that  I  can  occa- 
sionally have  a  glimpse  of  the  unspeakable  glory  of  living 
for  Christ ;  and  then  the  vanities  which  have  so  long  en- 
grossed my  attention,  appear  in  their  real  insignificance, 
and  I  can  feel  a  desire  to  be  entirely  devoted  to  his  ser- 
vice. But  I  am  weak,  and  the  deceitfulness  of  my  heart 
makes  me  fear  that  the  impressions  I  have  received  may 
be  transient,  and  the  idols  I  have  cherished  so  long,  may 
again  resume  their  place,  and  leanness  once  more  be  sent 
upon  my  soul.  I  am  disheartened  and  discouraged  except 
when  I  look  to  the  promises  of  the  gospel,  and  find  that  if 
I  will  but  be  faithful  there*  is  no  danger  of  fainting,  for 
they  that  wait  on  the  Lord  shall  run  and  not  be  weary, 
and  walk  and  not  faint.  And  I  derive  encouragement 
from   the  thought,  that  you  will  not  forget  to  pray,  that  I 


34  MEMOIR. 

may  not  suffer  this  season  to  pass  without  becoming  per- 
manently holier  and  better." 

April  28,  1835,  he  thus  writes  to  his  father  :  "  The 
solemnity  still  continues  in  college.  There  have  been, 
as  we  hope,  about  twenty  conversions,  of  which  six  are 
in  our  class.  Perhaps,  however,  it  would  not  be  best  to 
say  any  thing  of  this  publicly.  We  hope  to  see  still  more 
of  our  classmates  and  friends  becoming  the  subjects  of 
renewing  grace  before  the  close  of  the  term ;  but  there 
must  be  much  prayer,  or  the  numerous  anxieties  and  an- 
ticipations incident  upon  the  close  of  the  term,  will  oblige 
many  to  suffer  this  precious  harvest-time  to  close  without 
securing  the  salvation  of  their  souls.  With  regard  to 
myself,  I  feel  unworthy  to  say  any  thing,  but  I  cannot  re- 
frain from  expressing  an  humble  hope,  that  this  may  con- 
stitute an  era  in  my  religious  course.  It  has  been  to  me, 
in  all  probability,  the  most  important  and  interesting  sea- 
son of  my  life.  But  I  feel  miserably  weak,  and  when  I 
look  forward  to  the  temptations  that  await  me,  I  tremble 
at  the  possibility  of  my  so  treating  the  influences  of  the 
Spirit,  as  to  lose  their  permanent  and  lasting  advantage. 
Such  contemplations  will  serve,  as  I  trust,  to  give  me  an 
entire  sense  of  my  dependence  on  Him  in  whom  alone  is 
my  hope." 

Four  years  afterward,  he  writes,  April  26,  1839,  "  I 
look  back  upon  the  college  revival,  as  one  of  the  most 
critical  periods  of  my  whole  religious  history.  I  feel 
deeply  guilty  that  I  did  not  avail  myself  more  fully  of  the 
unusual  opportunity  afforded  for  benefiting  myself  and 
others  ;  but  I  bless  God  for  what  he  permitted  me  to 
gain.  For  worlds  I  would  not  have  lived  through  that 
scene  in  coldness  and  stupidity,  or  lost  the  rich  gifts  it 
renewed  to  my  soul," 


MEMOIR.  35 

Mr.  Homer  was  not  insensible  to  the  objections  which 
are  frequently  urged  against  revivals  of  religion,  and  es- 
pecially in  our  colleges.  During  one  period  of  his  resi- 
dence at  Andover,  he  was  unduly  influenced  by  these 
objections,  but  he  at  length  recovered  from  their  power. 
"  God,"  he  wrote,  "  has  come  so  close  to  my  own  fireside, 
that  I  cannot  question  the  reality  of  his  interposition." 
In  an  animated  controversy,  an  opposer  of  such  excite- 
ments remarked  to  him,  that  these  revivals  generally 
occurred  in  the  second  term  of  the  college  year,  and  it 
was  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  the  influences  of  the 
Divine  Spirit  were  limited  to  the  months  of  March,  April 
and  May.  But  to  this  he  replied,  that  during  the  first 
term  the  students  were  unacquainted  with  each  other,  a  new 
class  having  recently  entered  ;  that  during  the  third  term, 
there  was  a  great  tendency  to  dissipation  of  mind,  in 
consequence  of  the  warmth  of  the  season,  the  frequent 
allurements  to  places  of  festivity,  the  approach  of  com- 
mencement, and  the  preparation  of  one  class  for  departure 
from  college ;  that  the  second  term  was  the  only  one 
remaining  unbroken,  and  presenting  those  still  scenes 
which  ever  invite  the  Spirit  of  peace.  The  physical  con- 
dition of  the  students  also,  during  this  term,  fits  them 
peculiarly  for  religious  contemplations.  To  the  objection, 
that  these  revivals  interrupted  the  scholar's  progress 
in  study,  he  replied,  that  the  evil,  though  often  an  attend- 
ant, was  an  unnecessary  one  ;  that  the  religious  excite- 
ment would  be  more  protracted  and  more  healthful  if  the 
students  continued  a  moderate  application  to  their  clas- 
sics ;  that  he  himself  endeavored  to  preserve  as  much 
regularity  in  his  scientific  pursuits  during  a  revival,  as 
during  a  period  of  religious  apathy,  and  that,  in  some 
respects,  his  mind  was  better  fitted  for  study  by  the  ex- 
traordinary efforts  of  the  conference  and  inquiry  room. 
To  the  objection  that  there  was  too  great  an  accumulation 


36  MEMOIR. 

of  incentive  applied  to  the  mind  of  an  impenitent  student 
at  such  a  time,  too  many  and  too  earnest  exhortations 
addressed  to  him,  he  replied,  that  this  also  need  not  be  ; 
that  prudence  was  needful  on  the  part  of  Christians,  and 
was  easy  to  be  exercised  ;  that  they  need  not  and  should 
not  converse  at  hap-hazard  with  their  fellow-students, 
but  should  know  what  had  been  previously  said,  and  what 
was  now  important  to  be  added ;  that  the  Christian 
scholar  should  be  peculiarly  delicate  in  his  approaches  to 
his  companions,  and  should  insinuate  his  exhortations, 
rather  than  cast  them  abruptly  upon  the  mind,  and  that 
he  should  practise  all  those  winning  graces  of  manner 
which  will  allure  to  a  pleasant  consideration  of  a  theme 
naturally  distasteful. 

HABITS   OF    SELF-CONTEMPLATION. 

There  is  so  little  of  outward  adventure  in  the  life  of  a 
student,  that  he  forms  the  habit  of  turning  his  eye  in- 
ward. He  is  not  carried  along  with  the  whirl  of  busi- 
ness, so  as  to  preclude  his  frequent  questionings  with 
himself.  Who  am  I  ?  Where,  whence  am  I  ?  Whither, 
how  am  I  going?  And  when  his  prospects  for  mental 
improvement  are  darkened,  when  disease  threatens  to 
cripple  his  intellect,  or  misfortune  closes  the  volume  of 
wisdom  to  his  eyes,  he  has  misgivings  of  heart  which  he 
will  tell  of  to  no  one  but  his  God.  The  most  touching 
words  ever  penned  by  Buckminster,  are  those  which  he 
wrote  in  his  twenty-first  year,  when  he  began  to  feel  the 
premonitions  of  a  wasting  intellect.  "  I  pray  God,"  he 
writes,  "  that  I  may  be  prepared,  not  so  much  for  death, 
as  for  the  loss  of  health,  and,  perhaps,  of  mental  facul- 
ties. The  repetition  of  these  fits  must,  at  length,  reduce 
me  to  idiocy.  Can  I  resign  myself  to  the  loss  of  memo- 
ry, and   of   that   knowledge   I   may   have  vainly  prided 


MEMOIR.  87 

myself  upon  ?  O  God !  enable  me  to  bear  this  thought, 
and  make  it  familiar  to  my  mind,  that  by  thy  grace  I  may 
be  willing  to  endure  life,  as  long  as  thou  pleasest  to 
lengthen  it.  It  is  not  enough  to  be  willing  to  leave  the 
world,  when  God  pleases ;  we  should  be  willing,  even  to 
live  useless  in  it,  if  he,  in  his  holy  providence,  should 
send  such  a  calamity  upon  us.  I  think  I  perceive  my 
memory  fails  me.     O  God  save  me  from  that  hour !  " 

The  subject  of  this  memoir  was  fond  of  looking  within 
himself,  of  measuring  his  capacities,  of  scanning  his 
faults,  and  scrutinizing  the  probable  grounds  of  his  future 
failures  or  successes.  Nor  were  his  self-contemplations 
always  healthful.  He  had  too  many  forebodings  that  his 
youthful  promise  would  not  be  realized  in  his  subsequent 
attainments.  It  cannot  be  said  that  he  had  been  a  child 
of  precocious  genius.  He  had  performed  no  intellectual 
feat  like  that  of  Hartly,  who  devised  the  plan  of  his  great 
work,  while  at  the  age  of  nine  or  ten  he  was  swinging  on 
his  father's  gate,  or  of  Robert  Hall,  who  read  the  pro- 
foundest  treatises  in  our  language  before  he  had  reached 
his  eleventh  year ;  but  there  had  been  an  uncommon 
balance  of  the  mental  and  moral  powers  in  the  childhood 
of  Mr.  Homer,  and  also  a  maturity  of  religious  principle. 
He  had  been  still  and  retiring,  while  other  children  were 
leaping  in  the  ring,  and  he  had  obtained  more  symmetry 
of  mental  character,  and  a  more  complete  scholarship, 
than  others  of  greater  native  talent  and  less  industry.  It 
was  not  singular,  that  with  his  meditative  cast  of  mind, 
he  should  often  inquire  whether  his  known  superiority 
were  merely  ephemeral,  depending  entirely  on  his  facti- 
tious advantages  and  on  youthful  impulses.  There  is  an 
excellence  which  belongs  to  a  young  man  and  fades  away 
with  advancing  years,  or  even  becomes  a  fault  at  middle 
age.  Many  who  have  possessed  it,  and  have  died  in  the 
morning  of  life,  acquired  a  greater  distinction  than  they 
4 


38  MEMOIR. 

could  have  retained  ;  and  their  early  death  was  the  seal 
of  their  future  fame.  Mr.  Homer  often  feared  that  his 
own  mental  acquisitions  would  be  less  useful  in  manhood, 
than  they  were  flattering  in  his  minority.  The  very  ex- 
istence of  his  fears  indicates  that  they  were  groundless. 
His  mental  course  was  onward  till  his  dying  day,  and  his 
attainments  were  both  designed  and  fitted  for  future  use- 
fulness more  than  for  present  distinction.  His  efforts 
were  preparatory.  The  most  labored  part  of  his  writings 
was  in  the  form  of  hints  and  notes  for  future  use.'  His 
eye  was  fixed  upon  manhood  as  the  harvest  season,  for 
which,  in  the  spring-time  of  life,  he  must  sow  the  seed 
with  diligence.  But  the  character  of  his  studies  did  not 
remove  the  fear,  that  the  indications  of  his  youth  would 
be  remembered  as  the  buddings  of  a  flower  that  never 
blossomed.  He  meditated  more  on  the  early  history  of 
those  remarkable  children  who  never  became  remarkable 
men,  than  on  the  childhood  of  Des  Cartes,  Bacon,  Boyle, 
Newton,  Jones,  Johnson,  Franklin,  and  indeed  a  majority 
of  our  intellectual  masters.  Sometimes,  in  the  twilight, 
he  would  be  found  sitting  in  his  room  alone  and  pen- 
sive. He  would  not  disclose  his  sorrov/s,  but  he  had 
been  holding  converse  with  his  past  hours,  and  learning 
from  them  the  vanity  of  even  the  joys  that  were  in  store. 
Sometimes  would  he  be  seen  walking  in  solitude  and  with 
a  downcast  look ;  and  the  saddened  tones  of  his  voice 
would  show  that  his  thoughts  had  been  wandering  amid 
the  dark  scenes  of  life.  Often,  when  a  question  was  put 
to  him,  it  would  remain  unanswered  longer  than  polite- 
ness allowed,  for  he  was  absorbed  in  some  meditations 
that  he  could  not  express.  But  occasionally  he  would 
open  his  heart  to    a   friend,  and  tell  the  results  of  his 

^  See  a  specimen  of  these  in  the  •'  Abstracts  and  Notes  on  the 
Classics,"  inserted  as  an  Appendix  to  the  First  Edition  of  his 
Writings. 


MEMOIR.  dH 

introspection  and  retrospection.  "  To-day,"  he  says,  **  I 
have  been  reading  over  the  compositions  of  my  child- 
hood. They  form  the  most  instructive  volume  in  my 
library.  They  teach  me  to  be  humble,  and  to  fear  God, 
and  to  trust  in  heaven,  and  to  lay  up  no  treasures  on  the 
earth."  A  few  passages  from  his  letters,  written  at  Am- 
herst and  Andover,  will  unfold  his  habit  of  religious 
meditation,  his  love  of  introverting  the  mental  eye,  and 
his  tendency  to  that  occasional  gloom,  which  is  either  the 
prerogative  or  the  misfortune  of  sensitive  men. 

April  20,  1834.  (Sophomore  year  at  college.)  — 
**  Spring  has  just  begun  to  bud  and  blossom  in  Amherst, 
and  we  are  now  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  most  delightful 
weather.  A  few  weeks  will  close  a  term  in  some  respects 
eventful,  and  will  find  me,  I  fear,  but  a  few  steps  on  my 
way,  and  with  far  less  advancement  in  spiritual  character 
than  I  have  had  opportunity  to  make.  How  much  do 
these  rapid  transitions  from  term  to  term  in  college,  re- 
mind one  of  the  changes  of  life.  All  pass  rapidly  away. 
It  seems  but  a  few  days  since  I  was  a  thoughtless,  light- 
minded  school-boy,  and  now  I  am  just  beginning  to  think 
of  the  great  object  of  my  existence.  It  will  be  but  a 
short  time,  before  college  scenes  and  college  studies  will 
give  place  to  the  more  important  preparation  for  the  du- 
ties of  a  profession.  Then  will  come  life, — to  which  all 
that  has  preceded,  has  been  but  as  the  preface  of  a  book. 
Read  a  few  pages  and  you  come  to  the  conclusion — 
death !  What  creatures  we  are  1  And  in  view  of  the 
vanity  of  our  lives,  how  ready  ought  we  to  be  to  give  our- 
selves up  entirely  to  the  service  of  God," 

June  23,  1834.  "  I  am  this  term  alone,  as  I  men- 
tioned in  my  last,  and  it  is  my  present  intention  to  remain 
so,  if  circumstances  permit,  through  the  remainder  of  my 


40 


M£MOIR. 


college  course.  I  have  had  as  kind  and  pleasant  a  room- 
mate as  I  could  have  M^ished,  but  I  am  extremely  doubtful 
as  to  the  general  influence  of  that  close  and  uninterrupted 
companionship,  upon  persons  in  my  situation.  There  is 
unquestionable  benefit  to  be  derived  from  such  a  plan, 
but  I  think  it  is  more  than  over-balanced  by  the  opportu- 
nity afforded  in  a  solitary  room  for  that  silent  and  unin- 
terrupted meditation,  which  is  so  necessary  to  the  student. 
Not  that  I  am  becoming  a  hermit,  for  there  is  enough  of 
the  bustle  of  society  for  any  one,  when  I  am  obliged  to 
leave  my  room  and  mingle  in  college  associations.  But 
when  I  return,  instead  of  finding  more  society  there,  I 
ought  to  be  alone,  and  in  retirement  to  ponder  the  lessons 
on  human  character,  which  may  have  been  thrown  in  my 
way  when  I  have  been  abroad,  I  am  certainly  surrounded 
at  present  with  all  the  advantages  I  could  possibly  enjoy, 
and  I  trust  I  shall  be  enabled  to  make  a  right  use 
of  them." 

September  6,  1835,  to  a  college  classmate  :  "  Could 
you  read  my  thoughts  as  they  had  been  a  book,  for  the 
past  week,  you  would  find  something  to  laugh  at,  some- 
thing to  frown  at,  something  to  weep  at,  and,  if  I  mistake 
not  your  (temperament),  something  in  hieroglyphics 
which  you  could  not  decipher  or  understand.  And  now 
what  and  where  am  I  ?  I  look  to  the  past,  to  its  solemn 
vows  of  consecration,  of  non-conformity,  to  its  bitter  ex- 
periences of  sin  and  temptation  and  disappointment.  I 
look  to  the  future, — a  few  days  of  misty  and  uncertain 
prospect,  but  the  great  universal  *  vanishing-point  *  of 
eternity  just  as  sure  as  my  own  existence.  I  look  to  the 
Bible,  and  the  words  '  strangers  and  pilgrims '  meet  my 
eye.  '  Strangers  and  pilgrims  ! '  and,  blessed  be  God, 
that  is  not  all ;  but, — '  who  seek  a  city  yet  to  come,  even 
a  heavenly,'  where  there  is  a  balm  for  every  wound,  a 


MEMOIR.  41 

pillow  for  every  weary  one.  *  Strangers  and  pilgrims  ! ' 
and  I  have  been  thinking  to-night  how  foolish  we  are  in 
idealizing  what  is  but  earthly  at  best,  and  when  we  are 
not  content  with  present  realities,  reveling  in  what  must 
be,  of  its  very  nature,  not  a  whit  more  substantial,  in- 
stead of  making  our  imaginations  the  temple  of  the  spir- 
itual man.  But  I  fear  this  is  a  misty  sentence.  I  simply 
mean,  my  friend,  that  the  Christian  can  and  ought  to 
build  his  castles  not  in  air,  but  in  heaven." 

In  the  same  year  he  writes  to  a  classmate,  "  There 
have  been  days  when  I  was  almost  sad  that  my  life  had 
not  terminated  with  my  college  course,  for  I  felt  that  I 
was  doomed  to  a  puny  growth,  and  it  would  have  been  a 
relief  to  me  if  my  death  rather  than  my  life  should  crush 
the  hopes  of  my  friends.  But  that  was  sinful  pride.  I 
knew  it.  I  did  try  to  leave  the  discouragements  which, 
in  a  morbid  multitude,  seemed  to  be  pressing  upon  me. 
And  if  any  thing  gave  me  relief  it  was  submission  to  the 
will  of  a  divine  and  merciful  Parent.  I  feel  some  happi- 
ness in  such  submission.  There  will  be  moments  when 
peace  will  be  whispered  to  the  most  agitated  bosom, — in 
prayer.  And  remember,  there  is  one  whose  imperfect 
petitions  often  mingle  with  his  own  desires,  the  thought 
of  your  growth  in  holiness,  your  crown  in  heaven." 

February  6,  1836.  (Senior  year  at  college.) — **  The 
present  term  has  opened  quite  pleasantly  and  promises  to 
be  one  of  great  labor.  I  mean  that  it  shall  be  with  me. 
It  mortifies  me  excessively  when  I  look  back  on  the  three 
years  and  a  half  which  I  have  spent  in  the  enjoyment  of 
these  advantages  for  improvement,  and  find  how  I  have 
frittered  myself  away.  More  than  all  it  humbles  me 
when  I  think  how  little  I  have  penetrated  my  own  heart ; 
what  small  progress  I  have  made  in  self-acquaintance, 
4* 


42  MEMOIR. 

and  how  needful  it  is  for  me,  in  order  to  repress  my 
pridfe,  to  think  often  and  solemnly  of  the  weak  points  in 
my  character.  It  is  not  with  you^  as  it  has  been  with  me. 
You  have  just  commenced  your  course,  while  I  can  think 
of  myself  only  as  about  to  close  an  important  part  of 
mine.  College  life  has  been  to  me  a  sort  of  parenthesis, 
distinct  in  itself,  yet  useful  chiefly  in  its  bearings  upon 
what  succeeds.  It  should  be  a  great  preparatory  school, 
not  merely  in  the  intellectual  discipline  which  it  affords, 
or  the  knowledge  which  it  imparts,  but  in  the  science  of 
self-government  bf  which  the  principles  are  here  devel- 
oped, to  the  perception  of  all  who  have  ears  to  hear  and 
eyes  to  see.  But  when  I  remember  how  often  I  have 
closed  my  mind  against  the  rich  lessons  which  I  might  have 
learned,  and  how  little  effort  I  have  been  making  to  apply 
the  experience  of  my  daily  life  to  the  great  business  of 
knowing  and  mastering  myself,  I  confess  I  am  fearful  that 
I  am  not  ready  for  the  responsibilities  of  an  educated 
man,  more  than  all,  of  a  minister  of  the  gospel  of  Jesus 
Christ.  Time  is  hastening  me  on  to  the  close  of  my 
college  life.  I  seem  to  stand  on  an  eminence.  The 
great  field  of  my  anticipated  labor  with  its  rich  and  wav- 
ing harvest  meets  my  eye,  but  how  little  does  it  affect  my 
heart !  O  let  me  improve  each  moment  as  it  passes,  in 
preparation  for  that  glorious  work.  Let  me  gird  on  the 
gospel  implements  and  prepare  to  thrust  in  the  sickle. 
Let  me  labor  long  and  unweariedly  where  my  great  Master 
shall  direct.  And  then  when  that  life,  of  which  the  four 
years  of  my  college  course  are  an  emblem,  shall  also  be 
closing,  and  I  stand  straining  my  eye  for  the  prospect  of 
my  eternal  home,  richer  fields  and  golden  harvests  may 
be  spread  out  before  the  vision  of  my  faith.  Excuse,  my 
dear  friend,  these  rambling  thoughts,  which  interest  me, 

^  Mr.  James  G.  Brown. 


MEMOIR.  43 

I  am  well  aware,  more  than  they  do  you ;  but  if  by  com- 
municating, I  can  fix  them  more  deeply  in  my  own  heart, 
you  will  not  be  altogether  uninterested." 

Feb.  18,  1837.  (Junior  year  at  Andover.) — "Last 
Tuesday  was  the  most  miserable  day  I  ever  experienced. 
I  arose  in  the  morning  jaded  and  depressed.  It  was  the 
turn  of  the  eighty-eighth  Psalm  to  present  itself  to  my 
devotional  meditations,  and  it  seemed  a  remarkable  provi- 
dence, as  a  more  precise  and  accurate  mirror  of  my  own 
feelings  could  nowhere  have  been  selected.  It  was  no 
religious  exercise,  I  frankly  own,  but  in  the  solitude  of 
my  gloom,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  confess  it,  I  did  pour 
out  my  soul  like  water  over  that  Psalm.  Such  prospects 
of  discouragement  as  pressed  themselves  upon  me,  I  pray 
to  be  relieved  from  henceforth  and  forever.  There  is 
one  dreadful  thought,  that  at  such  moments  comes  upon 
my  mind.  I  would  whisper  it  in  your  ear.  It  is  that  my 
mind  has  already  reached  its  maturity,  that  I  shall  never 
grow  to  a  larger  than  my  present  intellectual  stature. 
My  developments  were  early,  perhaps  too  early.  I  have 
always  been  beyond  my  years.  And  you  know  that  it  is 
no  unusual  phenomenon  that  minds  too  soon  matured  are 
of  a  stinted  growth,  and  those  who  were  men  in  boyhood 
become  boys  in  manhood.  I  know  that  this  is  a  wicked 
thought.  It  may  be  the  conception  of  a  diseased  imagi- 
nation. It  undoubtedly  is  the  offspring  of  a  pride  of 
intellect,  rather  than  of  that  humble  and  submissive  spirit 
which  bows  in  meek  resignation  to  the  will  of  God.  But 
it  is  a  dreadful  thought  in  itself,  and  in  its  accompani- 
ments, when  I  think  of  the  disappointment  of  the  affec- 
tionate hopes  that  have  been  centred  in  me.  God  forgive 
me,  if  I  ever  think  of  honoring  the  earthly  objects  of  my 
love  more  than  the  heavenly." 


44  MEMOIR. 

July  1,  1840.  (Senior  year  at  Andover.) — '<  In  a  late 
singular  book,  there  is  one  passage  that  speaks  to  my  own 
spiritual  condition,  and  has  sometimes  touched  my  heart 
with  a  power  that  is  almost  wild. — *  Look  not  mournfully 
into  the  past.  It  comes  not  back  again.  Wisely  improve 
the  present.  It  is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy 
future,  without  fear  and  with  a  manly  heart.'  " 

It  may  be  said  that  some  of  the  foregoing  passages  be- 
tray pride  and  ambition  in  their  author.  He  had  some 
pride ;  and  who  has  not  1  who,  especially,  that  has  en- 
joyed a  life  of  uniform  distinction  ?  But  it  was  not  pride, 
far  from  it ;  it  was  meekness,  and  modesty,  and  an  hum- 
ble temper,  that  characterized  his  daily  intercourse. 
True,  he  had  a  high  self-respect,  and  it  raised  him  above 
the  meannesses  to  which  a  selfish  man  is  prone.  His 
keen  sense  of  honor  answered  the  purpose  of  a  second 
conscience,  and  he  was  too  high-minded  to  flatter  or  to 
prevaricate  or  connive  at  any  sly  and  insidious  manceuvre. 
He  was  too  proud  to  make  any  use  of  Lord  Bacon's 
maxim,  that  *'  the  best  composition  and  temperature  is  to 
have  openness  in  fame  and  opinion,  secrecy  in  habit,  dis- 
simulation in  seasonable  use,  and  a  power  to  feign  if  there 
be  no  remedy."  He  was  frank  because  he  respected 
himself,  but  whenever  he  found  that  his  self-esteem  was 
becoming  inordinate,  he  employed  expedients  too  humili- 
ating to  be  related,  for  subduing  the  evil. 

That  he  had  some  ambition  too,  will  not  be  denied. 
Sensitiveness  was  his  permeating  quality,  and  as  he  was 
sensitive  to  every  thing  else,  so  was  he  to  the  esteem  of 
his  fellow  men.  Having  a  strong  aspiration  after  all 
good,  he  was  not  regardless  of  the  good  there  is  in  the 
esteem  of  the  wise.  The  love  of  excelling  he  considered 
an  original  principle  of  our  nature,  not  to  be  eradicated, 
but  controlled.     He  did  not  pretend  to  have  banished  it 


MEMOIR.  45' 

from  himself,  as  some  men  have  pretended,  and  have 
therefore  courted  the  praise  of  the  world  for  their  superi- 
ority to  the  love  of  praise ;  but  he  struggled  and  prayed 
that  his  native  desire  of  excellence  might  be  turned  into 
the  channel  of  virtue,  and  operate  as  a  simple  desire  of 
rising  in  holiness  and  in  the  favor  of  God.  During  a 
long  and  confiding  intimacy  with  him,  I  never  detected 
the  least  symptom  of  envy,  nor  any  inclination  to  an  arti- 
fice for  self-promotion.  I  never  heard  him  whisper  a  syl- 
lable against  any  one  who  might  be  considered  his  rival, 
but  he  always  extolled  his  companions  in  proportion  as 
they  came  near  or  went  beyond  his  own  attainments.  He 
was  more  fond  of  confessing  a  fault,  than  of  pretending 
to  a  virtue,  and  he  often  acknowledged  his  ignorance,  but 
seldom  told  of  his  acquisitions.  It  seemed  that  his  desire 
of  excelling,  so  far  as  it  degenerated  into  a  faulty  ambi- 
tion, was  far  less  faulty  than  the  indolence  of  those  who 
fear  to  move  upward  lest  they  should  become  vain  and 
airy,  and  therefore  sink  downward  into  an  imbecile  and 
stupid  life. 

It  may  be  objected,  that  the  secret  confessions  of  fault 
which  the  preceding  letters  contain  should  not  be  exposed 
to  the  world.  They  would  not  be,  if  the  present  memoir 
were  designed  for  a  eulogy.  They  would  not  be,  if  the 
character  of  its  subject  needed  to  be  glossed  over  and 
his  foibles  artfully  concealed.  But  of  what  advantage  is 
a  biography  above  a  fictitious  tale,  when  but  half  the  truth 
is  told,  and  the  character  of  a  man  is  painted  as  that  of 
an  angel  1  The  Christian  philosopher  objects  to  novels, 
because  they  give  false  views  of  life  and  benumb  our 
sympathies  with  man  as  he  is  actually  found.  And  what 
are  too  many  of  our  biographies  but  likenesses  of  nothing 
which  is  in  heaven  above,  or  in  the  earth  beneath,  or  in 
the  waters  under  the  earth  ?  The  true  idea  of  a  memoir 
w,  that  it  shall  impart  the  general   and  combined  impres- 


46  MEMOIR. 

sion  of  its  subject;  that  it  shall  give  no  undue  prominence 
to  his  foibles,  nor  make  a  needless  exposure  of  his  un- 
covered sins,  and  shall  by  no  means  imply  that  a  man  may 
live  selfishly  among  us,  and  be  canonized  when  he  has 
gone  from  us  ;  that  he  may  sin  cunningly  here,  and  only 
his  virtues  shall  be  rehearsed  hereafter.  As  the  love  of 
posthumous  favor  is  one  incentive  to  virtue,  so  the  fear  of 
censure  from  our  survivors  is  a  dissuasive  from  vice. 


MR.  HOMER  AT  THE  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY. 

After  his  graduation,  Mr.  Homer  was  desired  by  some 
of  his  friends  to  spend  a  year  in  the  instruction  of  youth. 
It  was  thought  that  his  labors  in  such  a  sphere  would 
help  to  prepare  him  for  the  hardnesses  and  conflicts  of 
professional  life.  He  had  been  in  the  schools  from  his 
early  childhood,  had  encountered  but  little  of  the  selfish- 
ness and  bluntness  of  the  world,  and  a  divorcement  from 
the  select  circles  in  which  he  had  mingled  would  give 
him  one  important  kind  of  discipline  which  thus  far  he 
had  not  received.  But  he  was  wedded  to  his  studies,  and 
the  thought  of  interrupting  them  was  more  than  his  lite- 
rary spirit  could  endure.  He  accordingly  entered  the 
Theological  Seminary  at  Andover,  in  October,  1836. 
Soon  after  the  commencement  of  his  studies,  he  writes 
to  an  intimate  friend, 

November  4,  1836,  "  There  is  an  altar  to  which  we 
have  common  access.  Remember  me  there.  For  myself, 
in  the  new  and  interesting  situation  in  which  I  am  placed, 
with  my  hand  just  touching  the  ark  of  God,  and  my 
mind  advancing  every  day  to  the  crisis  of  its  development, 
I  have  never  so  deeply  realized  the  necessity  of  looking 
upward  for  guidance  and  support.  *  Without  are  fight- 
ings, within  are  fears»'     A  few  weeks  will  undoubtedly 


MEMOIR.  47 

decide  whether  I  am  to  do  much  or  little  in  my  Master's 
service.  And  how  consoling  to  me  the  reflection,  that 
other  hearts  in  Christian  sympathy  are  bearing  the  same 
burden  to  the  same  mercy  seat.  I  have  read  somewhere, 
perhaps  it  is  in  Jeremy  Taylor,  that  the  union  of  prayer 
in  Christians,  (however  widely  separated,)  for  the  same 
object,  is  like  the  clouds  of  incense  ascending  from  differ- 
ent altars,  and  in  separate  columns,  but  blending  in  rich 
and  graceful  harmony  above." 

December  18,  1836,  he  writes,  "The  work  which  I 
have  in  view  seems  every  day  to  be  enlarging  before  me, 
and  I  am  constantly  reminded  of  the  importance  of  such 
industry  and  regularity  as  must  operate  as  a  check  on 
many  of  my  enjoyments.  I  believe  that  I  have  acquired 
some  new  views  upon  this  subject,  since  I  came  to  Ando- 
ver,  which  make  my  college  life  and  acquisitions  look 
very  insignificant.  Yet  it  should  always  be  my  desire  and 
aim,  not  to  confine  myself  to  mental  cultivation,  but  to 
be  making  constant  efforts  for  spiritual  advancement,  that 
I  may  grow  in  knowledge  and  in  grace  together." 

Soon  after  he  entered  the  institution,  he  began  to  med- 
itate upon  the  course  of  his  future  life.  He  first  attended 
to  the  claims  of  the  heathen  upon  his  services.  He  writes 
to  two  of  his  friends  the  following  account  of  his  medita- 
tions : 

"February  12  and  18,  1837. — I  mentioned  to  you  just 
as  we  separated  last  Sunday  evening,  that  my  mind  had 
been  considerably  occupied  of  late,  with  the  claims  of  the 
missionary  service.  I  prefer  that  you  say  nothing  about 
it  at  present,  as  how  soon,  or  how,  the  question  may  be 
decided  is  uncertain.  On  the  first  Monday  in  January 
last,  (1837,)  I  commenced  the  examination  of  the  subject, 


48  MEMOIR. 

without  the  least  doubt  as  to  the  manner  in  which  it  would 
be  settled.  I  tried  to  consider  the  subject  prayerfully, 
and  I  confess  my  views  and  feelings  did  undergo  a  deci- 
ded revolution.  I  found  that  some  arguments  which  I 
had  thought  conclusive  in  favor  of  my  remaining  at  home, 
were  without  foundation.  I  think  that  on  that  day,  the 
attractions  of  home  and  country  and  friends,  and  the 
bright  visions  of  future  happiness  which  I  had  cherished, 
were  robbed  of  their  charm,  and  I  saw  the  full  wants  of 
perishing  millions ;  myself  in  darkness  upon  a  single 
point." "When  the  peculiar  sensitiveness  of  my  tem- 
perament, the  strength  of  my  attachment  to  home,  the 
habit  of  dependence  I  had  always  cultivated,  all  seemed 
to  hold  me  back,  I  asked  myself  if  Henry  Martyn  had 
not  these  infirmities  to  a  far  greater  extent,  if  he  did  not 
leave  his  home  under  circumstances  more  affecting  and 
wounding  to  those  sensibilities,  than  could  accompany 
me,  and  did  not  God  raise  him  above  them  all  ?  With 
half  his  piety,  with  half  his  scholarship,  with  half  his  de- 
votion to  the  work,  a  tenth  part  of  either  of  which  I  can- 
not aspire  to  now,  yet  by  cultivation  and  industry  and 
resolution  I  might  attain,  would  not  God  bless  my  feeble 
labors,  and  make  me  in  such  a  sphere  a  happy  and  a 
useful  man  ?  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  this  is  not  a  question 
between  the  infirmities  of  the  flesh,  and  the  claims  of 
God,  but  between  the  opposing  calls  of  duty  ;  not  a  ques- 
tion between  earthly  enjoyment  and  self-sacrifice,  but  be- 
tween duty  and  duty.  Can  I  be  more  useful  abroad  than 
at  home  ?  Upon  this  now  rests  the  whole  question.  My 
facility  in  the  acquisition  of  languages  would  give  me 
the  advantage  over  many,  perhaps  over  most  that  go  on 
missions.  But  is  my  mind  better  adapted  for  communi- 
cating with  such  spirits  as  are  found  on  heathen,  or  on 
Christian  shores?  Can  my  influence  be  most  extensive 
and  most  blessed  abroad,  or  at  home  1     Here  I  wait  for 


MEMOIR.  49 

light.  The  remarkable  change  which  took  place  in  my 
views  when  I  prayed  for  divine  direction,  I  am  sometimes 
inclined  to  regard  as  the  only  indication  which  God  will 
give  of  my  personal  duty.  Yet  I  would  not  be  hasty. 
A  mistake  abroad  is  worse  than  a  mistake  at  home  ;  the 
one  may  be  rectified  in  time,  the  other  never^_  If  I  could 
go  with  the  assurance  that  I  might  strengthen  the  hands 
of  my  fellow  laborers,  instead  of  proving  to  them  an  in- 
supportable burden,  I  believe  in  the  view  I  have  some- 
times taken  of  earthly  attachments,  I  could  leave  the 
brightest  visions  I  have  ever  dwelt  upon.  What  is  life, — 
so  short,  and  eternity  so  near  at  hand.  If  I  have  succeeded 
in  making  myself  intelligible,  write  me  your  views  upon 
the  subject." 

After  a  severe  conflict  between  opposing  claims,  Mr. 
Homer  finally  concluded,  that  his  duty  was  to  remain  at 
home.  He  next  examined  the  question  whether  he  should 
look  to  the  ministry  as  the  sphere  of  his  principal  labors, 
or  to  the  office  of  a  teacher  ;  and  he  decided  that  his  pe- 
culiar tastes  and  aptitudes  promised  him  a  greater  degree 
of  usefulness  in  the  chair  of  instruction  than  in  the  pulpit. 
It  became,  therefore,  his  fixed  purpose  to  qualify  himself 
as  far  as  he  could  in  his  leisure  hours  for  the  duties  of  a 
teacher.  With  this  view  he  intended  to  pass  two  or  three 
years  at  the  German  Universities,  as  soon  as  he  had  at- 
tained some  experience  in  the  ministry.  He  by  no  means 
meant  to  forego  the  privileges  and  the  pleasures  of  a 
pastor's  life ;  he  chose  to  bear  for  a  season  the  responsi- 
bilities of  a  parish  minister  ;  so  might  he  become  more 
familiar  with  the  influences  and  the  energies  of  the  gos- 
pel, deepen  his  interest  in  the  religious  welfare  of  his 
race,  and  learn  the  sacred  arts  of  persuading  men  to  vir- 
tue. He  wished,  also,  to  enliven  his  sympathies  with  the 
various  classes  of  men,  and  to  acquire  that  freshness  of 
5 


50  MEMOIR. 

feeling  which  the  atmosphere  of  a  literary  institution 
needs  rather  than  gives.  By  this  discipline  he  hoped 
through  the  grace  of  God,  to  sanctify  his  literary  influence. 

In  the  spring  of  1837,  he  left  the  seminary  for  a  year, 
continuing  his  residence  at  Andover,  and  enjoying  many 
privileges  of  the  Institution.  He  adopted  this  plan,  partly 
for  the  purpose  of  enjoying  a  more  complete  course  of 
biblical  instruction,  than  the  ill  health  of  Professor  Stuart 
would  allow  him  to  give  to  the  class  with  which  Mr.  Ho- 
mer had  been  connected,  partly  for  the  purpose  of  privately 
reviewing  his  Hebrew  studies,  and  writing  analyses  of 
several  of  the  sacred  books  ;  and  partly  for  a  more  en- 
larged and  comprehensive  investigation  of  both  the  class- 
ical and  the  sacred  Greek.  In  addition  to  these  labors, 
he  paid  some  attention  to  the  Arabic  language,  and  still 
more  to  the  German.  During  the  year  he  was  without 
any  restraint  save  that  of  his  own  moral  principle,  but  he 
never  was  more  energetic  or  industrious.  He  was  as  me- 
thodical in  the  division  of  his  time  as  if  he  were  regulated 
by  the  seminary  bell.  In  the  course  of  this  year,  Novem- 
ber II,  1837,  he  writes  as  follows  :  **  I  have  been  very 
hard  at  work  since  my  return  with  the  exception  of  two 
or  three  days.  Eleven  hours  in  the  day,  from  eight  in 
the  morning  till  ten  in  the  evening,  I  devote  to  my  studies. 
This  I  mention  not  from  any  feeling  of  vanity,  but  to 
show  that  I  am  not  the  loafer  here  that  I  am  in  Boston." 
When  he  had  again  connected  himself  with  the  seminary, 
he  writes,  '•  Yesterday  I  surrendered  my  liberty,  that  is, 
again  made  myself  a  subject  of  the  laws  of  the  Theolog- 
ical Seminary,  I  do  not  know  how  well  I  shall  '  lohip 
into  the  tracesJ  The  proof  I  have  given  of  my  ability  to 
take  care  of  myself,  is  no  proof  of  the  ability  of  the  law 
to  take  care  of  me." 

Indeed  it  was  one  of  the  marked  features  of  Mr. 
Homer's  mind  to  observe  a  strict  regularity  and   order  in 


MEMOIR.  St 

all  things.  It  was  an  instinct  with  him  to  ^ct  according 
to  plan.  He  made  no  parade  about  it,  he  adhered  to  sys- 
tem because  he  loved  system,  because  system  grew  with 
him  and  he  with  it.  His  whole  life  was  mapped  out  be- 
fore him,  and  to  the  hours  of  every  day  were  assigned 
their  respective  labors.  It  is  said  of  Dr.  Kirkland,  Presi- 
dent of  Harvard  College,  that  "  it  was  not  uncommon  for 
him  to  bring  into  the  pulpit  half  a  dozen  sermons  or  more, 
and,  on  the  instant,  construct  from  their  pages  a  new  ser- 
mon as  he  went  along,  turning  the  leaves  backwards  and 
forwards,  and  connecting  them  together  by  the  thread  of 
his  extemporaneous  discourse.  These  scattered  leaves 
resembled  those  of  the  Sybil,  not  only  in  their  confusion, 
causing  many  to  marvel  how  he  could  marshal  and  manage 
them  so  adroitly,  but  also  in  their  deep  and  hidden  wis- 
dom, and  in  the  fact  that  when  two-thirds  of  what  he  had 
thus  brought  into  the  pulpit  was  omitted,- — thrown  by  as 
unworthy  of  delivery, — the  remaining  third  which  he  ut- 
tered, was  more  precious  than  the  entire  pile  of  manu- 
script, containing,  as  it  did,  the  spirit  and  the  essence, 
the  condensed  and  concentrated  wisdom  of  the  whole."  ^ 
Such  a  confusion  of  the  materials  of  thought  would  be 
one  of  the  last  features  of  Mr.  Homer's  mind,  even  in  an 
extreme  old  age.  All  his  academy  compositions  he  had 
arranged  in  one  packet,  his  college  compositions  in 
another,  his  literary  addresses,  poetical  effusions,  etc.  in  a 
third  ;  his  notes  upon  his  classical  and  theological  studies 
he  had  accurately  classified  ;  his  essays  on  the  doctrines 
of  the  gospel  were  prepared  as  if  for  the  press,  and  were 
preserved  as  the  foundation  of  a  series  of  doctrinal  dis- 
courses which  he  had  planned  before  the  close  of  his  mid- 
dle year.     Many  of  his  manuscript  sermons,  though  never 

^  Rev.  Mr.  Young's  Discourse  on  the  Life  and  Charatster  of  Pres- 
ident Kirkland,  p,  41, 


52  MEMOIR. 

copied,  were  written  as  if  he  were  anticipating  what  was 
furthest  possible  from  his  thoughts,  that  they  would  be 
printed  verbatim  et  literatim.  In  looking  over  his  papers 
thus  arranged  and  systematized,  one  would  think  of  the 
remark  made  by  Curran  to  Grattan,  as  one  which  never 
could  be  made  to  Mr.  Homer — "  You  would  be  the  great- 
est man  of  our  age,  if  you  would  buy  up  a  few  yards  of 
red  tape,  and  tie  up  your  bills  and  papers." 

While  at  Andover  his  mind  seemed  to  acquire  new  ra- 
pidity of  movement.  It  was  surprising  to  his  friends  that 
he  could  accomplish  so  much.  He  kept  himself  minutely 
acquainted  with  the  political  news  of  the  day,  was  famil- 
iar with  its  current  literature  ;  every  new  book  which  was 
published  he  would  form  some  kind  of  acquaintance  with, 
and  was  far  as  any  one  from  neglecting  the  appropriate 
exercises  of  his  class.  All  that  he  did  he  perfected  with 
singular  ease,  seldom  appeared  to  be  hurried,  but  was 
happy  with  his  books,  and  enjoyed  them  as  companions. 

Throughout  his  seminary,  as  well  as  his  collegiate  life, 
he  avoided  promiscuous  company.  From  feeling  rather 
than  from  principle,  he  followed  the  rule,  *'  Be  kind  to 
all,  friendly  with  some,  intimate  with  ^qw."  He  was  too 
exclusive  in  his  intercourse  with  certain  companions  in 
study,  and  he  too  seldom  sought  the  acquaintance  of  oth- 
ers: Not  that  he  was  a  recluse,  or  had  the  feelings  or 
manners  of  an  anchorite  ;  he  seemed  to  be  familiar  with 
the  usages  of  the  best  society ;  but  he  lived  above  them, 
though  not  regardless  of  them,  and  preferred  his  intellec- 
tual pleasures  to  the  intercourse  of  fashionable  circles. 
To  some  of  his  friends  he  remarked,  when  a  Senior  at 
Amherst,  "Yesterday,  Mr. ,  by  dint  of  long  persua- 
sion, induced  me  to  get  into  a  chaise  with  him  and  ride 
over  to  Hatfield.  He  wished,  he  said,  to  show  me  more 
of  the  world  than  I  had  yet  seen.  I  enjoyed  my  visit 
mightily,  and  formed   a  higher  opinion  of  mankind  thaa 


MEMOIR.  «5^ 

from  the  maxims  of  Rochefoucault  I  was  expecting  to 
form." 

In  the  winter  of  Mr.  Homer's  Middle  year  at  Andover, 
he  received  the  appointment  of  Tutor  at  Amherst  College. 
He  was  solicited,  earnestly  and  repeatedly,  by  several  of 
his  friends  at  Amherst  and  Andover,  to  accept  the  ap- 
pointment, but  in  vain.  He  had  settled  the  plan  of  his 
future  life,  and  no  entreaties  could  prevail  with  him  to  re- 
linquish or  interrupt  it.  He  thus  writes  on  the  subject  to 
a  classmate : — "  You  will  no  doubt  be  surprised  at  my  de- 
cision to  decline  the  Tutorship  at  Amherst.  It  is  not  a 
hasty  one.  I  have  had  the  subject  before  my  mind  ever 
since  I  left  college,  and  have  often  anticipated  the  situa- 
tion with  great  pleasure.  But  for  almost  a  year  it 
has  been  my  undoubting  conviction  that  my  duty  calls 
me  immediately  to  complete  my  theological  studies,  and 
enter  the  profession  where  I  doubt  not  my  Master  designs 
I  should  serve  him  for  a  season.  I  say /or  a  season,  for  I 
ought  not  to  conceal  from  you,  what  you  have  yourself 
once  intimated,  that  I  do  not  look  upon  the  ministry  as 
the  sphere  of  my  permanent  operation,  or  greatest  useful- 
ness. The  more  full  development  of  certain  tastes, 
which  were  partially  exhibited  during  my  college  course, 
has  led  me  to  apply  myself  almost  exclusively  to  studies, 
which,  while  they  delight  and  profit  me,  are,  I  would  hope, 
furnishing  me  with  some  preparation  to  spend  the  greater 
part  of  my  life  among  scenes  which  I  was  born  for,  and 
which  I  should  delight  to  call  my  home." 

The  reader  will  be  more  readily  let  into  Mr.  Homer's 
study  at  Andover,  by  perusing  a  ^q\\  extracts  from  his 
correspondence,  than  by  any  lengthened  description. 

August  4,  I83S. — "  As  to  the  question  of  authorship,  I 
have  no  intention  at  present,   at  least,  of  venturing  into 
that  uncertain  wilderness.     Of  all  subjects,  the  poet  Ho- 
5* 


54  MEMOIR. 

mer  would  be  the  one  I  should  choose,  as  I  am  better  ac- 
quainted with  it  than  with  any  other,  and  have  furnished 
myself  within  a  year  or  two  with  the  materials  for  a  pretty 
extensive  work.  But  my  purposes  are  far  more  modest. 
Having  completed  the  writings  attributed  to  Homer,  I 
wished  to  satisfy  myself  upon  the  existence  of  such  an 
individual.  I  have  been  for  several  weeks  examining  the 
German  theory  of  Homer,  and  I  have  perfectly  satisfied 
my  mind  that  it  is  all  moon-shine.  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion,  not  only  that  the  Iliad  is  the  single  production 
of  one  author,  but  that  in  all  probability  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey  are  the  production  of  one  and  the  same  individ- 
ual. I  do  rejoice,  most  heartily,  in  the  ability  to  be  in 
poetry,  (not  to  speak  it  profanely,)  a  monotheist.  Excuse 
my  egotism.  I  think  I  have  heard  you  express  a  contrary 
opinion  on  this  topic,  and  were  it  not  for  my  utter  detes- 
tation of  literary  corrrespondence,  I  should  challenge  you 
to  an  immediate  discussion.  Blackwell's  work  I  have  not 
yet  read,  but  expect  from  it  abundant  entertainment." 

September  8,  1838. — '*  I  have  recently  obtained  a  com- 
plete list  of  Macaulay's  articles,  and  have  been  reading 
them  in  course.  There  is  a  splendid  article  on  Dryden, 
another  on  Johnson,  another  on  Machiavelli,  and  another 
on  Pitt,  besides  several  grand  historical  articles.  That  is 
the  man  for  me.  We  are  endeavoring  to  get  up  an  edition 
of  his  miscellaneous  writings  on  a  plan  similar  to  Emer- 
son's edition  of  Carlyle.  *  Not  that  we  love  Caesar  less, 
but  that  we  love  Rome  more.'  We  have  written  to  Eng- 
land, to  Macaulay  and  Lord  Napier,  (editor  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,)  and  should  we  be  thence  encouraged  to 
proceed,  the  work  will  goon  without  delay.  A  prospectus 
has  already  been  somewhat  prematurely  issued  by  Weeks 
and  Jordan  of  Boston." 


MEMOIR. 


dk 


November  3,  1838.— "I  returned  to  this  delightful 
spot,  (Andover,)  a  little  more  than  a  week  ago,  and  am 
now  regularly  started  in  my  course  of  study  for  the  term. 
I  occupy  my  forenoons  with  Theology,  my  afternoons  with 
German,  and  my  evenings  with  Demosthenes  ;  which  last 
I  like  hugely,  as  I  find  in  the  edition  I  purchased  in  Bos- 
ton all  the  helps  that  a  student  can  possibly  need.  With 
regard  to  text  books  in  theology,  I  own  Dick  and  Dwight, 
and  have  out  of  the  library  Knapp,  Storr  and  Flatt,  and 
Hopkins,  as  standard  authorities,  besides  miscellaneous 
controversial  documents  on  particular  points.  I  consider 
Knapp  as  worth  a  thousand,  and  value  him  more  than  all 
the  rest  together.  His  chief  excellence  consists  in  expo- 
sing the  loose  reasoning  of  the  advocates  of  truth,  of 
which  in  ordinary  theologians  I  find  a  great  abundance. 
Dick  is  too  little  of  a  biblical  scholar,  and  Dwight  some- 
times gives  us  a  non  sequitur,  but  Knapp  clears  away  the 
wood,  hay  and  stubble  with  which  most  other  writers  have 
decked  up  and  fortified  the  gospel  edifice,  and  shows  us 
only  the  polished  stones." 

June  8,  1839, — "It  is  a  long  time  since  I  addressed 
you  from  this  solitary  room.  But  here  they  all  are,  the 
books,  the  maps,  the  table  and  the  inkstand,  as  I  left 
them  ;  and  here  I  sit  with  my  white  jacket,  before  me  the 
sheet  that  is  my  speaking-trumpet  to  you,  behind  me  the 
open  windows,  the  balmy  air  and  the  melody  of  birds.  I 
have  been  hoping  and  praying  that  I  may  be  enabled  on 
the  morrow  to  commence  aright  the  duties  of  the  new 
term." 

December  14,  1839. — "Three  of  our  students  have 
formed  a  little  coterie  for  the  purpose  of  examinino-  and 
discussing  theological  subjects.  We  meet  twice  a  week 
at  my  room.     We  also  have  once  a  week  an  evenincr  ex- 


56  MEMOIR. 

ercise  in  homiletics,  at  my  room,  when  one  of  us  recites 
the  substance  of  an  original  discourse,  the  other  two  offi- 
ciating as  hearers." 

January  3,  1840. — "  I  anticipate  this  as  a  year  of 
thrilling  interest  to  me,  no  doubt  the  most  momentous  of 
my  life.  It  will  be  the  year  of  my  commission  as  a  min- 
ister of  God,  the  first  year  of  the  great  work  of  my  life. 
For  the  first  time  I  shall  emerge  from  the  preparatory 
stages  in  which  I  have  heretofore  been  occupied,  and  put 
on  the  garb  of  practical  manhood." 

March  26,  1840. — •'  I  have  now  pretty  much  completed 
the  severer  duties  of  the  term,  having  finished  six  ser- 
mons. I  have  been  delivering  two  lectures  on  Jeremy 
Taylor  before  a  select  club.  They  were  extemporaneous, 
and  each  two  hours  long." — "  I  have  read  seven  critiques 
upon  characters  in  Shakspeare  before  another  club  formed 
for  English  criticism.  I  am  beginning  to  go  for  clubs 
and  coteries.  Solitary  study  I  find  does  not  bring  out 
the  whole  man.  Combine  the  solitary  with  the  social  is 
the  rule." 

From  the  preceding  letters  the  reader  will  perceive, 
that  notwithstanding  Mr.  Homer's  intention  to  spend  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  in  the  chair  of  literary  instruction, 
he  yet  applied  himself  to  the  duties  of  a  preacher  with  all 
the  enthusiasm  which  he  had  hitherto  devoted  to  his  more 
private  studies.  The  laws  of  the  Theological  Seminary 
require  each  member  of  the  Senior  class  to  write  four 
sermons  during  the  year.  This  small  number  is  demand- 
ed, because  it  is  esteemed  far  more  important  for  a 
minister,  in  his  novitiate,  to  write  well,  than  to  write 
much.  But  Mr.  Homer  wrote  three  times  the  number  of 
sermons  which  the  law  requires,  and  became  as  eager  to 


MEMOIR. 


57 


preach  them,  as  he  had  been  desirous  hitherto  of  avoid- 
ing public  observation.  So  long  had  he  been  confined  to 
preparatory  labors,  that  he  became  impatient  for  the 
active  duties  of  his  profession,  and  seemed  to  leap  for 
joy  at  the  prospect  of  doing  good  in  the  pulpit.  His 
mind  sprung  like  a  bow  hastening  to  discharge  its  arrow. 
He  had  been  judicious  heretofore,  in  the  mode  of  spend- 
ing his  vacations,  he  had  devoted  them  to  the  recreating 
of  his  mind  and  his  body,  and  had  regarded  as  somewhat 
comical  the  remark  of  Wyttembach,  that  vacations  were 
designed  for  teachers  to  relax  their  powers,  and  for  pupils 
to  review  their  studies.  But  at  the  close  of  his  first  Se- 
nior term  at  Andover,  when  his  mind  had  been  agitated 
by  the  severest  affliction  of  hi^  life,  and  he  had  still  per- 
formed an  unusual  amount  of  intellectual  labor,  he  was 
persuaded  to  spend  the  seminary  recess  in  pastoral  duties 
at  South  Berwick,  Maine.  The  first  vacation  in  which 
he  evidently  needed  repose,  was  the  first  in  which 
he  refused  to  take  it.  To  several  of  his  friends,  he  gives 
the  following  account  of  his  labors  :  ''  I  preached  a  third 
service  in  Boston  last  Sabbath  evening,  and  although 
Monday  and  Tuesday  I  felt  as  well  as  ever,  yet  I  think  I 
must  have  over-strained  myself,  and  prepared  for  the  la- 
mentable result.  On  Wednesday  I  had  a  touch  of  the 
real  bronchitis,  which,  since  that  time  has  assumed  the 
various  forms  of  cold,  cough,  hoarseness,  sore  lips,  till  at 
length  it  has  deepened  into  that  most  unpoetical,  vexa- 
tious disease,  a  cold  in  the  head.  I  conduct  a  prayer 
meeting  on  Sunday  evenings,  and  preach  a  lecture  on 
Friday  evenings.  When  this  interesting  cold  in  my  head 
allows  me  to  do  any  thing,  I  enjoy  myself  much  in  read- 
ing and  writing.  Last  week  I  wrote  two  sermons,  beside 
reading  Carlyle,  John  Foster,  Longfellow's  Hyperion, 
(choice)." — "  I  ought  not  in  any  case  to  have  spent  my  va- 
cation in  the  labors  which  I  have  been  performing,  espe- 


58  MEMOIR. 

cially  when  I  was  as  unwell   as  when  I  left  Boston,     I 
have  very  narrowly  escaped  a  fever  since  being  here." 

But  notwithstanding  his  want  of  repose,  he  appeared 
at  the  seminary  during  its  summer  session,  as  elastic  as 
ever,  and  as  punctual  at  the  required  exercises ;  wrote 
his  essay  on  the  Posthumous  Power  of  the  Pulpit,  with 
which  he  closed  the  services  of  his  class  at  their  Anniver- 
sary, wrote  his  oration  on  the  Dramatic  Element  in  Pul- 
pit Oratory,  which  he  delivered  on  leaving  the  president's 
chair  of  the  Porter  Rhetorical  Society,  decided  one  of 
the  most  important  questions  of  his  life,  that  of  his  imme- 
diate settlement  in  the  ministry,  composed  four  sermons, 
and  preached  so  often  and  with  so  much  zeal,  that  the  end 
of  the  term  found  him  again  exhausted.  But  on  the  Sab- 
bath after  the  exciting  scenes  of  the  Anniversary,  he 
preached  three  times ;  on  the  succeeding  Monday  returned 
to  his  old  study  at  Andover,  wrote  two  sermons  in  six 
days,  preached  on  the  next  Sabbath  two  sermons  at  Salem, 
two  in  Boston  a  week  afterward,  and  during  the  ensuing 
month  preached  six  times  at  Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  and  once  at 
Newark,  N.  J.  He  thus  allowed  himself  but  little  repose 
from  the  commencement  of  his  Senior  year  to  the  period 
of  his  ordination.  How  little  he  enjoyed  after  that  period, 
the  sequel  will  show. 

HEALTH    AND    PHYSICAL    REGIMEN. 

The  life  of  Mr.  Homer  was  as  we  have  seen  a  happy 
one.  It  was  exempt  from  many  of  the  ills  to  which  lite- 
rary men  are  exposed.  His  memoir  is  not,  like  that  of 
some  others,  a  record  of  aches  and  groans.  He  went 
straight  forward  in  one  uninterrupted  course  of  improve- 
ment until  a  fortnight  before  his  death.  No  pecuniary 
want,  no  alarming  disease,  no  domestic  affliction  ever 
compelled  him  to  leave  his  studies  for  a  single  month. 


MEMOIR.  59 

^  He  performed  his  intellectual  labors  with  as  much  facility 
as  diligence.  Labor  ipse  vnluptas  was  his  motto  and  the 
secret  of  his  success.  Never  more  happy  than  with  bis 
books,  and  having  never  learned  from  experience  the  ills 
or  the  perils  of  sickness,  he  was  unwilling  to  adopt  any 
severe  regimen  of  body.  If  confidence  in  the  soundness 
of  one's  constitution  were  a  preventive  of  disease,  his  health 
would  never  have  failed,  for  he  used  to  say  that  he  did  not 
know  enough  about  sickness  to  become  a  hypochondriac. 
He  was  abstemious  in  his  diet,  but  he  ate  and  drank  what 
he  chose.  He  was  regular,  as  in  every  thing  else,  so  also 
in  his  exercise,  but  this  exercise  was  regularly  too  little. 
In  his  most  prudent  days  he  was  content  with  a  morning 
and  evening  walk.  The  dumb-bells  were  too  monotonous 
and  unintellectual  for  him,  the  athletic  games  were  too 
puerile,  the  wood-saw  and  the  axe  were  better  fitted  to 
increase  his  self-denial  than  his  physical  vigor  ;  of  horse- 
manship he  was  utterly  ignorant,  and  indeed  there  was 
nothing  which  could  allure  him  from  his  books,  to  those 
exercises  which  would  have  strengthened  his  mus- 
cular system.  Even  in  childhood,  he  was  a  more  suc- 
cessful competitor  for  a  prize  in  the  school-room,  than 
for  victory  on  the  play-ground. 

**  Concourse  and  noise  and  toil  he  ever  fled, 
Nor  cared  to  mingle  in  the  clamorous  fray 
Of  squabbling  imps." 

His  friends  often  remonstrated  with  him  on  the  perils  of 
his  sedentary  life.  They  endeavored  to  beguile  him  into 
a  system  of  more  vigorous  exercise,  as  the  friends  of 
Richard  Hooker  would  fain  do  with  the  judicious  youth. 
'*  Richard,  I  sent  for  you  back,"  said  the  bishop  of  Salis- 
bury, "  to  lend  you  a  horse  which  hath  carried  me  many 
a  mile,  and,  I  thank  God,  with  much  ease  ;  and  presently 
delivered  into  his  hands  a  walking-staff  with  which  he 


60  MEMom. 

professed  he  had  traveled  through  many  parts  of  Germa- 
ny." But  a  man  must  lose  his  health  twice  before  he 
will  learn  to  take  care  of  it.  He  needs  the  "  regret  of 
folly  to  make  him  wise,"  and  the  pains  of  disease  to 
make  him  healthy.  The  subject  of  this  memoir  had  an 
instinctive  abhorrence  of  ultraism  in  religion,  politics  and 
literature  ;  and  he  had  seen  so  much  of  ultraism  in  diet- 
etics, that  he  was  repelled  into  an  opposite  fault.  '•  As 
to  this  gastric  juice,"  he  said,  *'  I  know  nothing  about  it, 
and  care  less.  Nobody  should  think  of  it  but  the  doctor. 
Animal  food  I  eat,  because  I  have  read  in  the  books  that 
man  is  not  a  carniverous  animal.  All  kinds  of  bread  are 
nutritious  to  me,  except  what  is  called  dyspeptic  bread, 
and  I  am  never  injured  by  my  food,  save  when  I  eat  for 
the  purpose  of  promoting  my  health.  I  am  told  that  I 
must  not  exert  my  faculties  immediately  after  dinner,  but 
I  never  knew  the  day  when  I  could  not  apply  my  mind  in 
the  afternoon  as  well  as  the  morning.  I  am  likewise  told 
that  the  forenoon  is  better  for  study  than  the  evening,  but 
so  far  am  I  from  finding  any  difference  between  them, 
that  although  I  am  not  an  Hibernian,  I  find  the  evening 
the  best  part  of  the  day."  When  he  read  the  words  of 
Richard  Baxter,  *'  I  had  in  my  family  the  benefit  of  a 
godly,  understanding,  faithful  servant,  near  sixty  years 
old,  who  eased  me  of  all  care,  and  laid  out  all  my  money 
for  housekeeping,  so  that  I  never  had  one  hour's  trouble 
about  it,  nor  ever  took  one  day's  account  of  her  for  four- 
teen years  together,"  he  would  say,  ♦*  that  is  the  way  to 
live  ;  "  but  it  is  not  the  way  to  live  long.  He  who  aims 
at  an  entire  divorce  from  earthly  cares  that  he  may  live  a 
more  intellectual  life,  should  remember  the  paper  kite's 
complaining  of  the  string  which  held  it  to  the  earth,  and 
hindered  its  rise  toward  heaven. 

In  some  respects,  however,  the  habits  of  Mr.  Homer 
were  favorable  to  his  health.     He  had  the  art  of  relievincr 


MEMOIR.  61 

a  strained  faculty  by  varying  its  exercise.  It  may  be  said 
of  him,  as  of  Robert  Hall,  "  He  found  the  advantages  of 
passing  from  one  subject  to  another  at  short  intervals, 
generally  of  about  two  hours  :  thus  casting  off  the  men- 
tal fatigue  that  one  subject  had  occasioned,  by  directing 
his  attention  to  another,  and  thereby  preserving  the  intel- 
lect in  a  state  of  elastic  energy,  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end  of  the  time  devoted  daily  to  study."  His  inno- 
cence and  cheerfulness  of  temper,  his  control  over  all  his 
passions,  helped  to  preserve  a  continued  elasticity  in  his 
well-nigh  spiritual  body.  His  exercise  also,  though  insuf- 
ficient in  degree,  was  favorable  in  kind.  It  was  taken 
pleasantly,  with  a  cheering  companion,  and  in  forgetful- 
ness  of  his  solitary  labors.  If  three  or  four  of  his  literary 
friends  had  gone  with  him  to  his  parish,  and  walked  with 
him  there  as  they  had  done  at  Andover,  he  might  have 
been  indebted  to  them  for  his  life.  Professor  Tholuck  of 
Halle,  who  is  more  familiar  with  biblical  literature  than 
with  our  manners  and  customs,  recently  assigned  three 
reasons  for  not  visiting  the  United  States  ;  first,  the  rife- 
ness  of  our  mob  spirit,  which  might,  as  he  said,  endanger 
his  life ;  secondly,  the  prevalence  of  dyspepsia,  which  is 
somewhat  peculiar  to  our  students  ;  and  thirdly,  the  want 
of  promenades  in  our  cities  and  villages.  It  was  a  prom- 
enade, which  Mr.  Homer  needed  at  South  Berwick,  to 
allure  him  from  his  books,  and  fascinate  his  eye  during 
the  solitary  ramble.  The  probability  is,  that  had  he 
always  lived  in  the  groves  of  the  academy,  and  walked 
by  the  gently  flowing  Ilissus,  he  had  glided  smoothly 
through  a  long  and  honorable  life.  But  a  man  cannot 
always  live  in  a  sequestered  bower,  nor  is  that  the  scene 
for  the  perfecting  of  the  soul.  It  is  well  that  he  must 
wrestle  with  the  perplexities  of  life.  It  is  an  old  Chinese 
proverb,  that  a  gem  cannot  be  polished  without  friction, 
nor  a  man  be  improved  without  adversity.  When  the 
6 


62  MEMOIR. 

subject  of  this  notice  left  his  retreat  at  Andover,  and 
hastened  to  his  parochial  toils,  he  exposed  his  constitution 
to  a  sudden  shock.  Without  a  hal)it  of  athletic  Iribor, 
without  interest  in  any  employment  which  he  could  pur- 
sue in  the  open  air,  with  a  system  exhausted  by  the  efforts 
of  his  Senior  year,  he  was  ill  fitted  for  the  multiplied  re- 
sponsibilities which  he  chose  to  heap  upon  himself  as  a 
pastor.  But  the  melancholy  issue  of  his  life  is  reserved 
for  a  future  section.     It  is  enough  to  say, 

"  In  his  own  mind  our  cause  of  mourning  grew, 
The  falcMon's  temper  ate  tbe  scabbard  through." 


RESULTS  OF  MR. 

The  fruits  of  mental  application  are  not  always  tangi- 
ble. They  are  seen  in  the  character  rather  than  the 
exploits  of  the  mind.  There  is  a  mellowness  of  feeling, 
a  refinement  of  sensibility,  a  generous  and  liberal  spirit, 
which,  more  than  any  display  of  erudition,  betoken  the 
scholar.  The  subject  of  this  memoir  found  the  reward 
of  his  studies,  not  so  much  in  the  treasures  of  knowledge 
which  he  had  amassed,  as  in  the  nice  adjustment  of  his 
moral  and  mental  power,  the  beautiful  symmetry  of  his 
tastes  and  affections  and  faculties,  the  balancing,  not 
indeed  exact,  but  more  accurate  than  is  common,  between 
one  energy  and  another  of  his  mind  and  his  heart.  One 
of  his  friends  has  aptly  remarked,  that  "  he  displayed  the 
perfectness  of  growth,  a  kind  of  finish,  even  in  his  early 
youth;  the  shrub  possessing  the  same  proportion  of  parts 
as  the  tree  which  it  will  become  ere  long."  He  had  also 
that  candor  of  mind  which  comes  of  an  enlarged  scholar- 
ship. He  could  never  have  been  a  partizan  in  theology, 
as  a  young  man  often  loves  to  be,  and  he  would  probably 
have  done   much  good  by  his  freedom  from  that  narrow 


MEMOIR.  69 

spirit  which  will  cling  to  a  sect  or  school,  be  it  new  or 
old.  But  the  richest  fruit  of  his  scholarship  was  seen  in 
his  increasing  capacity  for  improvement.  The  rapidity 
of  his  mental  advances  seemed  to  be  accelerating  every 
day,  until  a  half  month  before  his  death.  He  had  laid  a 
broad  and  deep  foundation  for  an  intellectual  structure 
which  would  have  risen  fair  and  high. 

Before  he  had  closed  his  twenty-second  year,  he  had 
accumulated  much  that  would  have  quickened  his  mental 
growth  for  a  long  time  to  come.  He  had  written  nume- 
rous essays  and  orations,  four  quarto  volumes  of  notes  on 
his  collecriate  studies,  eight  volumes  of  abstracts  and 
theses  upon  the  topics  of  his  Seminary  course,  had  ac- 
quired six  foreign  languages,  some  of  which  he  had  mas- 
tered, had  studied  with  philosophical  acumen  the  writings 
of  Hesiod,  Herodotus,  Longinus,  Dionysius  Halicarnas- 
seus,  Aeschylus  and  Euripides,  and  many  of  the  old 
English  prose  authors ;  had  written  an  analysis  of  each 
book  in  the  Iliad  and  of  the  Odyssey,  with  copious  anno- 
tations upon  them,  a  critical  disquisition  also  upon  each 
of  the  minor  poems  and  fragments  ascribed  to  the  father 
of  poetry,  an  analysis  of  the  orations  of  Demosthenes 
and  Aeschines,  with  extensive  criticisms  upon  each,  and 
various  translations  from  Latin  and  German  commenta- 
tors upon  the  sacred  and  classical  writings.  He  had  also 
collected  materials  for  at  least  three  courses  of  lectures 
upon  Homer  and  Demosthenes,  and  thought  himself  pre- 
pared to  finish  these  courses  with  but  little  additional 
study,  and  within  a  short  time.^ 

MR.  HOMER  AS  A  FRIEND. 

It  is  not  as  a  scholar  that  Mr.  Homer  is  most  pleasantly 
remembered,  but  as  a  friend.     There  was  an  affectionate- 

♦  See  Appendix  to  the  Memoir,  Note  B. 


64  MEMOIR. 

ness  and  a  confiding  frankness  in  his  heart  and  manner, 
which  wound  others  around  him  in  a  strange  way.  The 
beauties  of  his  social  nature  still  linger  in  the  remem- 
brance, like  the  spent  breathings  of  an  Aeolian  harp,  and 
we  would  fain  muse  upon  them  in  silence,  rather  than  de- 
scribe them-  to  a  stranger.  His  companions  never 
admired  so  much  as  they  loved  him,  and  they  cling  to  his 
memory  with  a  tenacity  that  will  never  let  it  go.  Their 
feelings  toward  him  now  that  he  has  gone,  are  his  highest 
praise.  They  prove  that  his  character  was  a  combination 
of  such  virtues  as  have  won  the  lasting  esteem  of  all  who 
were  admitted  into  the  sanctuary  of  his  heart,  and  that 
his  influence  will  be  the  greater  and  the  better  as  he  was 
the  more  intimately  known.  It  is  said  of  an  eminent 
preacher,  that  all  who  never  associated  with  him  will  be 
profited  by  his  discourses.  The  usefulness  of  the  ser- 
mons in  the  present  volume  will  be  increased  by  the 
familiar  knowledge  of  their  author's  character.  It  is 
somewhat  singular  that  each  of  his  friends  supposed  him- 
self to  be  the  peculiar  object  of  Mr.  Homer's  regard,  and 
each  has  said,  without  suspecting  the  same  to  have  been 
said  by  another,  "  I  imagine  that  he  disclosed  his  feelings 
to  me  as  freely  and  confidentially,  as  to  any  one  living." 
And  even  now,  he  seems,  like  a  good  portrait,  to  be  fix- 
ing his  eye  distinctively  and  winningly  upon  every  indi- 
vidual of  his  chosen  brotherhood. 

He  did  not  select  his  associates  logically,  by  way  of 
inference  from  any  sermon  of  Bishop  Atterbury  or  Dr. 
Blair  on  the  choice  of  companions,  nor  after  a  wise  cal- 
culation of  the  benefit  he  might  receive  from  them  ;  not 
because  they  were  rich,  nor  because  they  were  popular, 
nor  because  they  were  learned  did  he  choose  them,  but 
because  he  was  drawn  to  them  by  the  mutual  attractions 
of  his  own  and  their  nature.  He  was  their  friend  before 
he  judiciously  resolved  to  be  so.     Neither  did  he  confine 


MEMOIR.  65 

his  attachments  to  those  who  were  cast  in  his  own  mould. 
He  preferred  circumstantial  varieties  amid  general  sym- 
pathies. Nor  was  he  blind  to  the  imperfection  of  his 
associates  ;  he  saw  it,  and  frankly  reproved  it,  but  with 
all  their  faults  he  loved  them  still.  He  sometimes  in- 
dulged them  with  his  confidence  merely  because  they 
wished  it.  He  freely  gave  them  his  hand  because  they 
gave  him  their  hearts.  He  acted  on  the  principle  which 
Dr.  Payson  commends,  "  The  man  that  wants  me  is  the 
man  I  want."  He  said  of  himself,  "  Alas,  I  am  suscep- 
tible, very  susceptible,  too  susceptible  ;  "  and  if  any  one 
appealed  to  his  generosity,  or  his  pity,  or  his  Christian 
benevolence,  the  appeal  was  not  in  vain.  Hence  he  would 
sometimes  contract  an  intimacy  less  profitable  to  himself, 
than  it  was  flattering  to  his  comrade.  He  did  not  draw 
near  to  men  in  their  prosperity,  and  find  himself  other- 
wise employed  in  their  adversity,  nor  when  his  friends 
were  in  pain  did  he  study  as  calmly  as  if  it  were  well 
with  them.  When  the  multitude  frowned  upon  men 
whom  he  valued,  he  was  not  "ashamed  of  their  chain." 
True  worth,  wherever  he  discerned  it,  he  would  com- 
mend, though  it  were  hidden  from  the  view  of  others,  by 
some  unpleasant  traits  with  which  it  was  combined. 

It  is  soothing  to  recall  the  interest  which  was  ever  man- 
ifested by  Mr.  Homer  in  those  of  his  fellow  students  who 
needed  his  sympathies.  He  ministered  to  his  sick  class- 
mates as  one  who  suffered  with  them,  and  if  any  of  his 
fellow  travelers  in  the  walks  of  literature  were  arrested 
by  death,  he  missed  them  and  spoke  of  them  as  his  breth- 
ren. When  young  men  are  herded  together  in  a  public 
institution  and  secluded  from  the  humanizing  influences 
of  the  domestic  circle,  they  often  become  obtuse  in  their 
sensibilities,  and  acquire  a  roughness  and  a  coarseness 
which  they  mistake  for  the  sign  of  manhood ;  and  when 
they  bear  one  of  their  number  to  the  grave,  they  some- 
6* 


66  MEMOIR. 

times  affect  to  be  superior  to  such  refinements  of  expres- 
sion as  are  prompted  by  nature  in  its  truth  and  healthful- 
ness.  In  more  instances  than  one,  our  departed  friend 
perceived  some  heartless  formality  at  the  obsequies  of  a 
comrade,  and  with  his  peculiar  delicacy  strove  to  prevent 
its  recurrence.  He  remembered  as  one  of  the  most 
pleasing,  though  melancholy  services  of  his  life,  how  he 
once  smoothed  the  pillow  of  a  dying  classmate,*  studied 
to  ascertain  the  most  exact  proprieties  of  the  funeral  rites, 
and  then  attended  the  cold  remains  to  the  home  of  the 
bereaved  parents,  who  resided  a  hundred  miles  from  Am- 
herst, and  were  ignorant  of  the  death  of  their  son  until 
a  half  hour  before  the  corpse  arrived.  During  this  jour- 
ney in  an  inclement  season  of  the  year,  and  over  well 
nigh  impassable  roads,  his  sensibilities  were  so  much  ex- 
cited, that  for  days  after  his  return,  his  tones  of  voice 
were  mournful,  and  he  seemed  to  have  lost  a  brother. 

While  a  student  at  Andover,  he  writes,  Aug.  3,  1838, 
"  Yesterday  one  of  our  number,  Mr.  Homer  Taylor,  died 
of  typhus  fever.  He  had  been  sick  only  a  fortnight,  and 
was  not  supposed  to  be  dangerously  ill  until  a  day  or  two 
previous  to  his  death.  There  were  some  peculiarly  inter- 
esting circumstances  connected  with  his  departure.  His 
delirium,  brought  on  by  the  violence  of  his  disease,  was 
almost  wholly  religious.  The  fact  seemed  to  furnish  as 
cheering  evidence,  as  in  such  circumstances  could  be  af- 
forded, of  the  holiness  of  his  previous  life.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  power  that  disordered  his  mind  could  not  expel, 
but  only  confused,  those  pious  contemplations  on  which 
he  loved  to  dwell."  — '*  We  buried  him  at  evening.  *  Thou 
art  gone  to  the  grave,  but  we  will  not  deplore  thee,'  that 
beautiful  hymn  by  Bishop  Heber,  was  sung  at  the  grave, 
and  the  solemn  toll   of  the  bell  mingled   most  richly  with 

»  Mr.  D.  C.  RowelL 


MEMOIR.  9^ 

the  tones  of  the  music.  As  we  turned  away  from  the 
grave-yard,  the  sinking  sun  repeated  the  lesson  of  admo- 
nition. It  seemed  like  the  voice  of  providence  and  the 
voice  of  nature  speaking  together." 

Eleven  of  Mr.  Homer's  collegiate  classmates  died  before 
him,  and  not  one  of  them  dropped  into  his  grave  without 
calling  forth  some  lamentation  from  the  subject  of  this 
memoir.  *'  One  by  one,"  he  says,  *'  we  shall  all  drop 
away,  till  the  last  survivor  looks  back  on  the  catalogue  of 
the  dead.  Who  will  that  last  survivor  be  1  "  **  O  what 
are  our  prospects  of  worldly  honor  or  happiness,  compared 
with  those  that  brighten  the  fading  vision  and  cheer  the 
sinking  spirit." 

It  is  not  pretended,  that  in  Mr.  Homer's  intercourse 
with  his  friends  he  was  one  of  those  marvelous  proper 
men,  who  never  say  anything  which  is  not  fit  for  the  press, 
or  write  a  private  letter  which  is  not  prepared  for  the  pul)- 
lic  eye.  He  did  not  talk  like  a  book,  nor  compose  his 
epistles  as  he  composed  notes  on  Aeschines.  He  agreed 
with  Hazlitt,  that  "  to  expect  an  author  to  talk  as  he  writes 
is  ridiculous,  and  even  if  he  did  so,  you  would  find  fault 
with  him  as  a  pedant.  We  should  read  authors,  and  not 
converse  with  them."  Those  who  enjoyed  his  correspond- 
ence, which  was  voluminous  for  one  of  his  years,  value 
his  letters  highly,  but  will  not  allow  many  of  them  to  be 
published,  they  are  so  full  of  private  allusions,  of  out- 
flowings  from  his  own  free  nature.  They  are  such  as 
none  but  a  friend  could  write  to  a  friend,  and  the  greater 
portion  of  them  would  lose  their  interest  on  the  printed 
page,  as  the  dew-drop  parts  with  its  brilliancy  when  taken 
up  by  the  chemist  for  an  analysis.  What  we  wish  in  a 
friendly  correspondence  is,  that  the  letter  be  an  emanation 
of  the  friend  who  writes  it,  that  it  be  himself  drawn  out, 
not  with  any  desire  of  making  a  show,  for  this  is  not 
friendly,  not  with  any  very  prominent  desire  of  giving  in- 


68  MEMOIR. 

struction,  for  this  is  the  correspondence  of  a  lecturer,  or 
of  a  professor,  or  of  a  student,  rather  than  of  a  man  ;  but 
with  the  desire  of  communing  heart  with  heart,  and  trans- 
fusing one's  own  familiar  thoughts  or  feelings  into  the 
soul  of  another  who  is  absent  in  body  but  present  in  sym- 
pathy. There  are  some  who  can  engage  in  an  agreeable 
kind  of  letter-writing  which  tends  more  immediately  and 
avowedly  to  intellectual  edification,  but  this  is  the  collo- 
quy of  judgment  with  judgment,  and  has  no  peculiar  re- 
lation to  the  communings  of  friend  with  friend.  The 
subject  of  this  memoir  was  a  true  and  hearty  friend,  and 
all  his  scholarship  never  left  him  a  dried  up  specimen  of 
humanity. 

But  it  must  not  be  imagined  that  his  friendship  was  un- 
profitable either  to  himself  or  to  others.  The  nature  of 
it  may  be  learned  from  the  following  description  which  he 
has  given  of  one'  to  whom  he  had  been  attached  from 
early  childhood,  and  with  whom  he  had  shared  the  most 
hidden  joys  of  his  life.  "  I  think,"  he  says,  "  that  Mr. 
Brown  was  made  for  my  friend,  and  that  I  was  made  for 
his  ;  for  his  faults  were  those  which  I  have  not,  and  mine 
are  those  which  he  had  not.  There  is  a  depression  in  my 
character  where  his  had  a  protuberance,  and  there  is  a 
fulness  with  myself  which  corresponded  with  a  deficiency 
in  him,  so  that  we  met  exactly  and  sympathized  in  all 
points."  "  I  may  safely  say,"  he  writes  again,  "  that  of 
the  whole  circle  of  my  acquaintance,  although  there  was 
not  one  who  would  better  adorn  and  enliven  by  his  social 
qualities  a  circle  of  pleasure,  there  was  not  one  who  pos- 
sessed a  deeper  spirit  of  piety,  or  lived  nearer  to  his  Sa- 
viour. I  am  surrounded  by  mementos  of  his  religious 
worth,  always  valued,  but  since  his  death  most  precious. 
His  letters  to  me  breathed  the  spirit  of  a  man  in  whose 

'  Mv.  James  G.  Brown,  formerly  of  Boston,  Mass. 


MEMOm. 


m 


soul  religion  was  the  chief  treasure.  His  voice,  the  tones 
of  which  were  so  familiar  in  this  room,  that  I  hear  them 
this  moment,  and  have  heard  them  again  and  again  since 
his  departure,  I  remember  chiefly  for  its  eloquence  in  pri- 
vate prayer,  and  on  the  great  subject  which  so  often  made 
his  eye  kindle  and  his  heart  overflow.  I  need  not  assure 
you  how  wide  is  the  vacancy  which  his  loss  has  left  in  my 
heart.  Differences  of  education  and  temperament  and 
circumstances  had  only  deepened  our  long  attachment. 
There  never  has  been  a  time  since  our  first  acquaintance, 
when  my  interest  in  him  has  not  led  me  to  anticipate  how 
severe  would  be  the  shock  of  his  death.  Even  now, 
although  the  first  anguish  of  grief  is  over,  there  are,  and 
there  must  be  for  a  long  time  to  come,  hours  when  its 
bitterness  will  recur  afresh  to  the  spirit.  Yet  God's  holy 
will  be  done." 

MR.  HOMER  IN  AFFLICTION. 

The  last  of  the  preceding  paragraph  suggests  a  theme 
for  the  present.  Though  the  life  of  our  friend  was  one  of 
sunshine,  still  there  were  a  few  dark  clouds  which  cast 
their  shadow  over  his  feelings  and  prospects.  It  is  well 
that  he  did  not  go  through  this  vale  of  tears,  without 
leaving  some  illustrations  of  his  fitness  to  endure  the  ills, 
as  well  as  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  the  world.  His  manly 
grief,  his  calm  submission  to  the  will  of  heaven,  and  the 
felicitous  mode  in  which  he  ministered  consolation  to  his 
afflicted  friends,  will  be  seen  by  the  following  extract^ 
from  his  correspondence ; 

Andover,  Theological  Seminary,  January  20,  and 
February  27,  1840. — **  The  friend  of  my  early  days  has 
been  torn  from  me.  You  know  how  deep  and  long  con- 
tinued has  been  my  attachment  to  Mr.  James  G.  Brown. 


70  MEMOIR. 

My  love  for  him  had  been  growing  deeper  and  deeper 
every  year,  until  it  had  sent  its  roots  into  the  very  depths 
of  my  soul.  For  the  last  few  years  he  had  been  engaged 
in  commerce  at  New  Orleans,  but  wishing  to  gratify  the 
desires,  and  appease  the  anxieties  of  the  many  who  loved 
him,  he  had  relinquished  his  business  in  that  city,  and 
was  preparing  for  a  permanent  residence  among  his  friends 
at  the  north.  Just  before  embarking  for  New  Orleans, 
he  wrote  as  follows :  '  I  feel  a  delight  in  thinking  there 
is  One  into  whose  hands  I  can  commit  my  spirit,  and  who 
can  command  the  winds  and  waves  to  bear  me  in 
safety  to  my  destined  port.  But  if  the  sea  is  to  prove  my 
grave  and  burial-place,  I  pray  God  that  I  may  be  fully 
prepared  for  whatever  he  is  to  call  me  to  pass  through. 
Infinite  wisdom  is  on  the  throne,  and  that  which  is  done 
is  sure  to  be  right.' 

There  were  some  peculiar  reasons  which  made  me  de- 
sirous of  seeing  him  at  this  time.  Never  before  had  I 
anticipated  such  pleasure  in  meeting  him,  and  never  be- 
fore had  I  looked  for  his  return  with  such  anxiety.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  examined  the  ship  news  every 
day,  from  his  embarkation  at  New  Orleans  to  his  arrival 
at  New  York.  The  recent  disasters  on  the  coast  had 
made  me  apprehensive  of  peril  for  him  on  his  homeward 
voyage,  and  I  read  each  paper  till  I  saw  with  joy  the  re- 
cord of  his  safe  return.  But  he  had  a  perilous  passage, 
and  it  is  almost  by  a  miracle  that  he  escaped  the  disasters 
of  the  sea.  Where  we  least  looked  for  danger,  where  we 
all  felt  as  secure  as  by  our  own  firesides,  at  the  threshold 
of  his  home,  he  met  the  death  from  which  he  had  been 
saved  in  the  hour  of  previous  danger.^  On  the  afternoon 
of  the  thirteenth  of  January,  he  left  New  York  for  Boston 
in  the  steamer  Lexington.     Amid  the  flames  which  con- 

^  This  incident  probably  suggested  the  illustration  to  be  found  at 
the  close  of  Sermon  IV, 


MEMOIR. 


71 


sumed  that  ill-fated  boat,  or  amid  the  cold  waters  that 
swallowed  up  so  many  of  our  fellow  citizens  on  that  dark 
night,  he  perished.  His  friends  feel  assured  that  he  died 
valiantly  and  sweetly,  and  resigned  himself  with  Christian 
composure  to  the  will  of  his  Lord.  A  (ew  days  after  the 
conflagration,  his  trunk  was  found  upon  the  beach.  It 
had  been  exposed  to  piratical  rapacity,  but  the  rude  hands 
of  the  robbers  had  left  what  was  more  precious  than  all 
which  they  took,  his  pocket  Bible  and  his  Daily  Food. 
It  was  soothing  to  find  that  he  had  recently  marked  for 
his  perusal  the  twenty-third  Psalm,  which  embraces  the 
significant  verses,  'The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,'  and 
*  Though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death,  I  will  fear  no  evil  :  for  thou  art  with  me ;  thy  rod 
and  thy  staff,  they  comfort  me.'  In  his  Daily  Food  he 
had  turned  the  leaf  at  the  following  passages  which  had 
been  selected  for  this  last  day  of  his  life,  and  which,  from 
his  known  habits,  we  believe  he  had  been  pondering  dur- 
ing his  few  last  hours  :  *  He  that  endureth  to  the  end 
shall  be  saved,'  and,  '  Watch  therefore,  for  ye  know  nei- 
ther the  day  nor  the  hour  wherein  the  Son  of  Man 
Cometh.'  I  have  requested  Mrs.  Sigourney  to  commemo- 
rate these  and  other  incidents  in  a  poetical  effusion.  The 
following  are  her  stanzas,  and  there  is  a  charming  sim- 
plicity and  a  quiet  piety  about  them,  which  place  them  far 
above  every  thing  which  has  yet  been  written  in  reference 
to  that  sad  disaster. 

On  the  death  of  James  Giiiswold  Browx,  who  perisJied  on  hoard  the 
Lexingtorty   January  13,  1840. 

*Watch,'  —  B?Li\\\  the  Saviour, — ^  watch,* 

Was  this  thy  theme 
Of  holy  meditation, — thou  whose  heart 
Buoyant  with  youth  and  health  and  dreams  of  bliss, 
Poured  forth  at  morn,  sweet  words  of  parting  love  ? 
Was  this  thy  theme  ? 

While  each  rejoicing  thought 
Was  radiant  with  bright  im.ages  of  home. 


72  MEMOIR. 

The  glowing  fireside,  the  fraternal  smile, 
The  parent's  blessed  welcome, — long  revolved 
'Mid  distant  scenes,  and  now  so  near  at  hand, 
Almost  within  thy  grasp, — when  all  conspir'd 
To  Itdl  the  soul  in  fond  security, — 
Say,— didst  thou  watch? 

The  sullen,  wreck-strewn  beach 
Makes  answer  that  thou  didst. 

Yea,— the  deep  sea 
So  pitiless  and  stem, — who  took  the  dead 
Unheard, — unanswering, — to  her  cells  profound, 
Gave  back  a  scroll  from  thee,  more  precious  far 
Than  ingots  of  pure  gold. 

So  thou  didst  stand 
Firm  in  thy  bumish'd  armor, — undismayed, 
A  faithful  sentinel. — The  sudden  call. 
So  widely  terrible,  in  words  of  flame. 
Found  thee  prepared. — Sharp  path  it  was,  but  short, 
To  the  Chief  Shepherd's  everlasting  fold. — 

Let  sad  affection  to  her  wounded  breast 

Press  this  rich  balm,— and  treasuring  up  the  traits 

Of  thy  blest  life, — grave  on  her  signet  ring, 

*  Watch,'— for  ye  know  not  when  the  Son  of  Man 
Cometh.* 

And,  therefore,  unto  all  who  tread 
Time's  crumbling  pathway,  saith  a  voice  from  heaven, 

*  Watch  and  he  ready  ; '  like  that  faithful  one  ' 
Who  in  the  strength  and  beauty  of  his  prime 
Sank  'neath  the  cold  wave,  to  return  no  more. 


January  21,  1840. — "  Of  the  burning  of  the  Lexington 
I  heard  first  at  Andover  on  Thursday  evening.  The 
dreadful  suspicion  that  my  friend  was  not  safe,  at  once 
flashed  upon  my  mind,  but  I  tried  to  attribute  my  fears 
to  my  own  feverish  and  anxious  spirit.  Circumstances 
came  to  my  memory  on  cooler  reflection  which  quite 
removed  my  anxieties,  and  I  was  hardly  prepared  on 
Friday  evening  for  the  reception  of  the  death's  list,  with 
the  name  of  my  friend  too  plainly  and  unequivocally  en- 
rolled in  it.  For  a  time  it  seemed  too  terrible  to  be 
believed.  What  he  was  to  me,  the  more  than  fraternal 
affection  that  subsisted  between  us,  you   well  know.     I 


MEMOIR.  *  78 

felt  for  hours  a  sensation  of  loneliness  in  the  room  where 
I  had  so  often  welcomed  him,  and  where  we  had  taken 
sweet  counsel  together.  Buried  in  the  memory  of  his 
friendship  I  scarcely  left  my  study  for  two  days.^  When 
I  came  out,  by  the  grace  of  God,  it  was  with  refreshment 
that  so  much  of  sacred  interest  mingled  with  my  remin- 
iscences. I  caught  the  well-remembered  tones  of  his 
voice, — but  they  were  in  prayer  for  you  and  for  me,  and 
for  all  of  us.  I  traced  the  lines  of  his  writing, — they 
breathed  a  Christian  comfort  and  consolation  to  us  in 
formeT  afflictions,  when  he  too  was  here  to  mourn.  Our 
strong  staff  was  indeed  broken,  and  our  beautiful  rod;  in 
the  flush  of  manly  beauty  and  promise,  the  joy  of  our 
hearts  was  torn  from  us.  But  he  who  administers  the 
chastisement  brings  with  it  a  sure  remedy  in  the  reflec- 
tion, that  the  home  which  our  departed  one  looked  for  in 
his  earthly  pilgrimage,  he  has  found  at  the  right  hand  of 
Jesus.  What  are  these  repeated  bereavements  which 
rend  our  souls  with  anguish  but  the  joyous  reiinion  of 
our  former  friends  in  purer  scenes, — and  what  shall  they 
be  to  us,  but  a  discipline  to  ripen  us  also  to  follow  their 
footsteps  and  participate  in  their  reward  ?  I  do  not  think 
that  one  could  leave  the  world  with  a  brighter  or  sweeter 
memento,  with  a  more  beautiful  encouragement  to  his 
mourning  friends,  than  Mr.  Brown  left  behind  him.     In  a 

^  "I  was  particularly  struck  at  the  time  of  this  sadden  bereave- 
ment with,  the  quiet  and  calm  resignation  with  which,  after  a  few 
hours  of  deep  distress,  he  yielded  to  the  blow.  I  read  him,  on  the 
Sabbath  evening  after  the  intelligence  was  received,  the  beautiful 
sermon  of  Tholuck,  entitled,  •  The  Testimony  of  our  Adoption  by 
God  the  Surest  Pledge  of  Eternal  Life.'  I  could  not  but  look 
with  admiration  upon  his  placid  countenance  as  he  seemed  to  drink 
in  the  words  of  hope  and  peace.  I  have  since  thought,  it  seems  as 
if  the  thought  occurred  to  me  then,  that  he  bore  the  pain  almost 
too  nobly ;  we  might  have  known  that  he  was  almost  prepared  for 
heaven." — Extract  of  a  letter  from  the  lamented  J.  H.  Bancroft. 
7 


74  MEMOIR. 

letter  written  a  few  moments  before  he  went  on  board  the 
Lexington,  be  says,  *  I  leave  to-night,  trusting  to  the 
watchful  care  of  my  Covenant  Shepherd.'  Who  would 
wish  for  a  more  delightful  resting  place  than  that  which 
this  Guardian  Friend  provides  for  his  chosen  ?  It  is  a 
pleasant  home  which  he  chooses  for  his  flock.  And 
when  the  chief  Shepherd  shall  appear,  who  can  doubt 
that  our  lost  ones  shall  appear  with  him  in  glory." 

"  February  8,  1840. — You  seem  to  me  to  dwell  too 
much  upon  the  aggravating  circumstances  of  our  late 
affliction.  This  is  natural,  but  unnecessary,  and  proba- 
bly incorrect.  At  first,  my  own  soul  was  haunted  by  the 
terrors  of  that  fearful  night,  and  much  of  the  miserable 
rhetoric  that  has  appeared  in  public  print  upon  the  sub- 
ject, has  been  fitted  only  to  inflame  the  imagination,  and 
in  all  probability  to  carry  it  beyond  the  reality.  After  a 
cooler  examination,  I  have  concluded  that  the  physical 
suffering  of  the  occasion  was  probably  far  less  than  is 
generally  supposed.  The  intense  and  thrilling  excite- 
ment of  the  scene  to  many  minds  would  furnish  occupa- 
tion, without  giving  them  an  opportunity  to  brood  over 
their  own  personal  distresses.  The  human  soul  is  fur- 
nished by  its  Creator  with  powers  of  self-support,  to  be 
developed  in  great  exigencies,  which  are  almost  miracu- 
lous. Where  was  there  an  exigency  so  great  as  that, — 
and  where  was  the  character  containing  in  itself  more 
sources  of  relief  and  even  happiness,  than  that  of  our 
friend  who  has  gone  ?  I  think  it  not  impossible  that  his 
constitutional  ardor  may  have  made  him  one  of  the  first 
who  perished.  If  so,  his  struggles  in  the  benumbing 
waters  could  have  been  but  momentary,  and  his  death 
may  have  been  as  serene  as  it  was  quick.  We  should 
have  perhaps  preferred  to  stand  by  his  bedside  and  watch 
his   lingering    agonies;    but   for  him,   it    was   no   doubt 


MEMOIR.  75 

physically  pleasanter  to  sink  down  exhausted  and  sense- 
less into  his  ocean-bed.  It  was  more  like  a  quiet  slumber 
than  we  are  apt  to  imagine.  There  is  another  thought 
which  has  given  me  great  consolation,  even  in  the  more 
fearful  alternative  that  he  may  have  continued  among  the 
last.  Our  dear  friend  was  prepared  to  die;  probably, 
better  prepared  than  many  of  us  who  survive.  I  think  of 
him  in  that  sweet  security  which  the  pjesence  of  Jesus 
can  impart,  resigning  himself  to  his  fate  peacefully  and 
calmly.  There  is  a  deep  meaning  in  those  passages  of 
Scripture  which  were  the  theme  of  his  last  perusal  and 
meditation.  There  is  prophetic  beauty  in  the  last  words 
which  we  heard  from  him.  And  now,  they  are  as  a  voice 
from  heaven  assuring  us  that  no  outward  terrors  can  dis- 
turb the  serenity  of  God's  chosen.  I  think  of  him  as 
cheering  the  comfortless  in  their  gloom.  With  what 
ardor  may  not  his  zeal  have  been  animated.  With  what 
efficiency  and  success  may  he  not  have  prosecuted  on  the 
burning  deck,  the  mission  he  was  not  faithless  to  in  the 
common  walks  of  life.  And  perhaps,  many  poor  trem- 
bling spirits  may  have  been  guided  by  his  example  and 
direction  to  the  fold  of  his  Shepherd  in  heaven.  There 
is  a  power  with  which  his  death  speaks  to  you  and  to 
me  which  I  cannot  believe  we  shall  be  indifferent  to.  In 
those  last  moments,  his  mental  eye  no  doubt  gathered  in 
the  sphere  of  its  vision  the  many  who  loved  him  and 
would  mourn  his  loss.  You  and  I,  no  doubt,  were  there, 
to  receive  the  blessing  and  the  prayer  of  the  dying. 
Shall  not  that  blessing  be  upon  us  through  life  ?  Shall 
not  those  prayers  be  answered  in  our  sanctification  ? 
Shall  not  our  *  daily  food  '  be  the  admonition,  *  watch? 
When  I  was  called  about  eight  months  ago,  to  mourn 
over  the  untimely  death  of  one  whom  we  loved,  I  wrote 
to  you  not  to  be  fearful,  for  God  would  take  care  of  me. 
I  meant,  dim-sighted  as  I  was,  that  it  could  not  be  that 


76  MEMOIR. 

God  would  afflict  us  again.  I  felt  that  to  the  survivors 
life  was  secure,  for  God  does  not  often  prepare  his  chas- 
tisements in  quick  succession.  But  now,  when  I  write 
to  you  that  God  will  take  care  of  us,  I  mean  for  life  or 
for  death.  He  knows  what  is  best.  Would  God  our 
bleeding  hearts  might  be  spared  another  shock,  yet  his 
will  be  done.  Safe  are  we  all,  be  we  frail  or  be  we  vig- 
orous, safe  are  we  all  in  our  Shepherd's  care,  and  there 
only.  I  leave  you  with  this  kind  protector,  knowing  that 
he  never  forsakes  his  chosen." 

At  subsequent  dates  he  says,  "  In  your  affliction,  keep 
up  a  good  heart,  let  me  entreat  you.  It  makes  me  sad  to 
see  that  you  speak  sorrowfully  of  life.  Not  that  I  blame 
you,  but  it  is  so  much  better  to  be  strong.  Read  over 
and  over  again  that  ennobling  Psalm  of  Life  by  Professor 
Longfellow.  Look  not  mournfully  on  the  past.  Trust 
in  Jesus  and  he  will  support  you,  and  for  you  and  me  and 
all  of  us  will  bring  light  out  of  our  sorrow.  And  for  the 
dead,  rest  to  their  sweet  spirits,  a  rest  that  is  full  of  life 
and  love. 

*  We  know,  we  know  that  their  land  is  bright, 
And  we  know  that  they  love  there  still.' 

Surely  they  think  of  and  visit  us,  and  it  is  not  idolatrous 
to  pray  that  they  always  may.  God-sent  messengers  are 
they,  angels  of  mercy  watching  by  our  bed-side  and  hov- 
ering about  our  walk.  O  let  us  be  holy  and  happy,  sur- 
rounded as  we  are  by  such  a  cloud  of  witnesses, — with 
God  and  Christ  and  the  holy  ones  whom  we  used  to  know 
and  love  all  gathering  about  our  pathway,  and  blessing  us 
with  a  perpetual  presence. Of  those  in  heaven,  some- 
thing tells  me  that  '  they  love  there  still.'  I  do  not  know 
that  I  can  reason  it  out,   but  it  is  a  demand  of  my  soul 


MEMOIR.  'W 

that  it  must  be,  and  I  know  that  it  is  so. Yes,  the  de- 
parted are  still  here  in  the  sweet  influence  of  their  undy- 
ing memory,  and  the  consciousness  of  their  ever-present 
though  invisible  sympathy  and  affection.  Ever  they  hover 
about  our  pathway.  Ever  we  hear  a  voice  saying  to  us, 
Be  of  good  cheer  !  *  The  flowers  of  our  fair  garland  are 
torn  from  us  here,  only  that  they  may  bloom  yonder,  love- 
lier and  forever.* In  the  light  which  thus  seems  to 

shine  forth  from  my  dark  trial,  I  can  adopt  the  language 
of  Jeremy  Taylor  as  my  own.  *  For  myself,  I  bless  God 
I  have  observed  and  felt  so  much  mercy  in  this  angry  dis- 
pensation, that  I  am  almost  transported,  I  am  sure,  highly 
pleased,  with  thinking  how  infinitely  sweet  his  mercies 

are  when  his  judgments  are  so  gracious.' Even  in  this 

frown  of  God's  providence,  the  eye  of  faith  beholds  the 
smile  of  his  love.  He  has  opened  to  us  a  clear  and  de- 
lightful pathway  to  the  eternal  world.  Mild  voices  are 
speaking  to  us,  soft  hands  are  beckoning  to  us  to  follow 
the  pious  dead  and  receive  their  reward.  I  think  I  can 
hear  them  soothing  our  sorrow  with  the  sweet  assurance 
that  the  afflictions  of  life,  the  terrors  of  death  are  not 
worthy  to  be  compared  with  their  own  far  more  exceeding 
and  eternal  weight  of  glory. Yesterday  was  the  Sab- 
bath, and  while  we  were  engaged  in  the  imperfect  worship 
of  earth,  I  often  thought  of  my  friend  who  was  then  em- 
ployed in  nobler  and  purer  services.  The  recollection  of 
the  many  precious  Sabbaths  we  had  passed  together  in 
this  room  came  home  to  me.  There  was  one,  the  last  he 
spent  with  me  here,  peculiarly  fresh  in  its  impression,  and 
delightfully  soothing  to  my  sorrow.  That  Sabbath,  we 
partook  together  of  the  sacramental  feast.  We  talked 
of  the  destiny  of  the  soul,  and  the  bliss  of  heaven.  We 
remembered  at  our  social  altar  the  then  scattered  mem- 
bers of  his  family,  never  forgotten  by  him  in  his  devotions. 
One  of  that  family,  the  sister  whom  we  were  so  soon  to 
7* 


1C  MEMOIR. 

mourn,  was  that  day  in  eternity,  though  we  knew  not  of 
it.  Much  of  our  conversation  and  employment,  as  I 
afterwards  thought,  was  beautifully  prophetic  of  what  I 
dare  not  call,  our  loss,  but  of  the  new  accession  to  the 
society  of  heaven.  And  now,  there  seems  to  have  been 
a  deeper,  a  still  more  significant  prediction,  which  no 
doubt  was  verified  when  the  blessed  spirit  of  the  first-called 
welcomed  this  brother  to  her  happy  home."  t 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  Sabbath  which  the  preceding 
letter  refers  to,  the  last  Sabbath  in  June,  1839,  Mr.  Homer 
read  in  company  with  Mr.  Brown,  the  funeral  sermon  of 
Jeremy  Taylor  on  the  Countess  of  Carberry.  He  paused 
often  as  he  was  reading,  and  spoke  of  the  resemblance 
between  the  virtues  of  the  Countess  as  they  are  described 
in  the  sermon,  and  the  characteristics  of  the  lady  whom 
he  alludes  to  in  the  last  of  the  passages  quoted  above,  and 
who  as  he  afterwards  learned  was  borne  to  her  grave  at 
the  very  hour  of  his  perusing  that  sermon.  By  a  sudden 
casualty  she  had  been  torn  from  her  family  and  children 
at  Johnstown,  N.  Y.,  "  and  I,"  said  Mr.  Homer,  "  with- 
out suspecting  the  appropriateness  of  my  employment, 
was  celebrating  her  obsequies,  while  the  procession  were 
slowly  moving  to  her  tomb,  and  I  knew  it  not."  A 
few  days  after  he  heard  of  this  bereavement,  he  wrote  the 
following  letter  to  his  friend  Mr.  Brown  : 

"  July  3,  1839. — How  little  we  thought  in  the  pleasure 
of  our  mutual  welcome  on  the  noon  of  Saturday  that  one 
so  near  to  us  was  just  receiving  a  welcome  to  a  sphere  of 
which  ear  hath  not  heard  nor  heart  conceived.  How 
little  we  thought  as  we  were  reading  over  that  funeral 
discourse  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  that  we  were  rehearsing  the 
praises  of  a  kindred  spirit  who  had  just  left  our  own  cir- 
cle.    When  we  talked  on  Sabbath  morning  of  the  future 


MEMOIR.  fO 

blessedness  of  the  righteous,  she  was,  no  doubt,  richly 
participating  in  it ;  and  while  we  were  celebrating  in  our 
feeble  way  the  triumphs  of  Christ's  love  at  his  table,  she, 
no  doubt  was  singing  the  new  song,  and  enjoying  a  more 
intimate  and  blissful  communion.  O  may  we  meet  her 
there !  Which  of  us  can  any  longer  think  of  loving  for 
this  life  alone,  when  we  hear  her  mild  sweet  voice  warn- 
ing us  to  love  for  heaven, — to  cherish  all  our  earthly  affec- 
tions in  such  a  way  that  they  can  be  perpetuated  beyond 
the  grave." 

On  several  occasions  when  the  subject  of  this  memoir 
was  bereaved  of  a  friend,  he  gave  expression  to  his  feel- 
ings in  verse.  The  following  lines  he  wrote  soon  after 
the  sudden  bereavement  to  which  the  last  of  the  forego- 
ing letters  has  reference  : 


'  I  hear  thy  voice,  fond  sleeper,  now, 

Not  as  it  rose  in  gladsome  hour. 
When  joy  illumed  thy  radiant  brow, 

And  life  bloomed  fair  with  many  a  flower, 
But  now  with  solemn  tones  and  still 

That  wake  each  chord  with  finer  thrill. 

I  hear  thy  voice  in  many  a  scene 

Where  thou  in  buoyant  hope  didst  roam,  ifl*^ 

Not  such  as  when  thyself  hast  been  -^^ 

The  cherished  idol  of  thy  home  :  '^^-"'^i 

But  now  in  accents  richly  deep  ^^ffl^H^^j^ 

From  the  low  grave  where  thou  dost  sleep. 

I  hear  thy  voice  in  melting  song. 

Not  as  its  cadence  charmed  the  ear 
Amid  the  gay  and  happy  throng 

Who  gathered  round  thy  beauty  here. 
A  spirit's  joy,  a  spirit's  lyre 

Thy  strains  of  melody  inspire.  "  t-i  't"s 

I  hear  thy  voice  in  fondness  call,  .  .^ 

Not  as  it  gave  its  witching  tone  '^ 

To  sway  with  soft  and  gentle  thrall, 
And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  thine  o-\vn. 

But  quivering  now  with  purer  love 
Por  us  below,  for  those  above. 


80  MEMOIR. 

I  hear  thy  voice  !     It  cometh.  oft        '^ 
In  sorrow's  gush  and  memory's  swell, 

When  sigh  we  for  its  welcome  soft 
Or  whisper  of  its  sad  farewell. 

It  comes  with  happy  tone  and  blest 
And  bids  us  to  thine  own  sweet  rest." 


MR.  HOMER  S   RELIGIOUS  CHARACTER. 

The  depths  of  the  sorrow  which  has  been  indicated 
in  the  foregoing  letters  were  disclosed  to  but  few  of 
Mr.  Homer's  friends.  His  inmost  feelings  he  was  not 
apt  to  reveal.  Hence  his  religious  character  was  under- 
stood only  by  those  who  were  intimate  with  him.  He 
kept  no  daily  record  of  his  emotions ;  he  was  afraid  that 
while  writing  his  diary,  he  should  often  "  turn  an  eye  to 
the  window,"  and  the  private  journal  would,  after  all,  be 
prepared  for  public  inspection.  What  will  men  think  of 
this,  if  it  should  ever  be  exposed  ?  is  a  question  that  slyly 
creeps  into  the  mind  of  even  a  secret  diarist.  He  feared 
the  influence  of  a  religious  record  upon  his  own  heart. 
If  a  man  be  moved  by  strong  impulses  of  piety,  while  he 
is  making  the  record,  he  will  use  glowing  language,  and 
this,  meeting  his  eye  a  month  afterward,  will  give  him  a 
higher  notion  of  his  goodness  than  he  can  entertain  truly 
or  safely.  If  he  be  moved  by  no  such  impulses,  he  will 
express  deep  lamentation  over  his  spiritual  sloth,  and  when 
he  reviews  the  mourning  record,  he  will  form  too  exalted 
an  opinion  of  the  humility  that  prompted  it.  If  he  have 
defrauded  his  neighbor  in  a  bargain,  he  will  not  be  so  wil- 
ling to  write  a  plain  narrative  of  the  fraud,  as  to  pour 
forth  his  sorrow  for  a  want  of  trust  in  divine  providence  ; 
and  the  grief  expressed  for  this  comparatively  respectable 
failing  will  remind  him,  years  afterward,  of  his  delicate 
moral  sensibility,  rather  than  of  his  flagrant  crime. 
"  Last  week,"  said  Mr.  Homer,  "  I  derived  great  pleasure 
from  reading  the  religious  diary  of .     It  is  rich,  rich^ 


MEMOIR.  81 

in  religious  experience.  He  seems  to  have  elaborated  his 
love  to  Christ  until  it  appears  to  be  almost  seraphic.  But 
alas  !  I  shall  never  read  that  diary  again,  for  I  perceive 
that  a  year  or  two  before  his  death  he  re-wrote  it.  What 
must  a  man's  expectation  be,  in  penning  his  religious 
journal  the  second  time  1 " 

It  is  to  be  regretted,  however,  that  these  injurious  ten- 
dencies of  keeping  a  private  record  assumed  so  great  a 
prominence  in  Mr.  Homer's  mind.  The  positive  good 
resulting  from  this  practice  would,  in  his  own  case,  have 
overbalanced  the  evil.  But  his  most  sacred  feelings  he 
shrunk  from  disclosing,  even  to  himself.  He  was  not 
communicative  on  all  other  themes,  and  silent  on  his  own 
Christian  experience ;  but  his  reserve  on  this  theme  was 
precisely  what  we  should  expect  from  his  native  delicacy. 
Indeed  his  whole  religious  character  was  in  keeping  with 
himself  He  was  not  a  doctrine  in  theology,  neither  was 
he  moral  perfection,  but  he  was — Bradford  Homer — guile- 
less and  pure-minded,  conscious  of  an  earnest  love,  but 
recoiling  from  the  least  semblance  of  a  parade  of  it.  He 
looked  and  spoke  naturally  when  religion  was  the  theme 
of  discourse,  and  all  his  modes  of  manifesting  religious 
feeling  were  such  as  accorded  with  his  temperament  and 
tastes.  The  phrase,  naturalness  of  piety,  is  an  ambigu- 
ous one,  but  if  it  were  not,  it  would  well  designate  his 
character.  The  perfection  of  goodness  is  to  make  a  right 
use  of  the  nature  which  God  has  given  us.  As  it  is  one 
of  the  highest  attainments  to  be  natural  in  any  thing,  so  it 
is  the  last  attainment  of  a  good  man,  to  regain  entirely 
the  nature  that  was  lost  in  the  fall.  To  shun  artificial 
developments  and  mere  conventional  forms,  and  to  let 
one's  free  and  full  heart  flow  out  in  the  channel  of  true 
benevolence  is  a  great  thing  ;  far  greater  than  to  catch  a 
certain  good  tone,   and  to  be  familiar  with  a  round  of 


82 


MEMOIR. 


phrases  that  may  happen  to  form  the  Shibboleth  of  a  com- 
munity. 

Like  himself  his  piety  was  retiring.  Others  were  more 
regular  than  he  at  the  public  meeting  for  prayer  ;  but  there 
has  seldom  been  found  a  Christian  more  punctilious  in 
observing  his  hours  of  secret  devotion.  "  After  I  had 
retired  at  night,  I  always  heard  his  voice  in  earnest  pray- 
er," is  the  testimony  of  one  who  lived  in  the  room  con- 
tiguous to  his  at  Amherst.  The  same  witness  is  borne 
by  one  at  Andover.  That  he  allowed  his  secret  prayers 
to  be  audible,  is  indeed  somewhat  of  an  anomaly  in  his 
religious  life,  for  he  was  fond  of  shunning  the  least  appear- 
ance of  parade,  and  if  any  one  thing  more  than  another 
were  his  abhorrence,  it  was  Pharisaism.  If  the  sound  of 
his  piety  did  not  go  forth  from  the  crowded  hall  so  loudly 
as  that  of  others,  he  was  faithful  to  the  hour  of  religious 
concert  with  a  few  absent  friends.  Like  himself  too,  his 
piety  was  kind,  condescending  and  considerate.  He  was 
not  a  noisy  member  of  a  Peace  Society,  nor  clamorous  for 
Moral  Reform,  but  he  cultivated  the  amiable  instincts  of 
his  nature,  and  delighted  in  diffusing  happiness  among  those 
around  him.  His  motto  was,  "  Caritate  et  benevolentia 
sublata,  omnis  est  e  vita  sublata  jucunditas."  He  did  not 
strive  nor  cry,  nor  was  his  voice  heard  in  the  street.  He 
did  not  break  the  bruised  reed,  nor  quench  the  smoking 
flax.  He  was  ever  marked  for  his  kindness  to  those  who 
were  feeble  in  the  Christian  faith.  ''  He  plied  them  with 
the  arts  of  a  sacred  courtship,"  and  allured  them  to  higher 
attainments  in  the  spiritual  life,  and  while  he  reproved 
them,  they  loved  him.  He  delighted  in  taking  up  what 
others  had  thrown  away,  and  doing  what  he  could  for  the 
rescue  of  one  that  was  given  over  to  uncovenanted  mer- 
cies. Often  was  he  asked  by  one  of  his  friends,  What 
protege  have  you  now  in  your  train  1  It  was  pleasing  to 
see  the  readiness  with   which  his  spirit,  by  an   instinct, 


M£MOIR.  83 

sought  out  the  persecuted,  the  down-trodden, — how  quick 
he  was  to  defend  from  all  injustice  the  weaker  of  two  op- 
ponents, and  if  the  question  between  the  two  were  exactly 
balanced,  he  was  only  to  learn  which  was  the  stronger  ere 
his  sympathies  clustered  around  the  feebler.  From  the 
earliest  days  of  his  religious  life  until  the  last,  he  felt  a 
peculiar  sympathy  for  those  who  had  not  the  cheering  in- 
fluences of  the  right  faith.  He  exerted  an  influence  over 
them  which  none  of  his  brethren  could  attain.  He  would 
labor  to  insinuate  the  truth  into  their  minds  and  charm 
away  their  prejudices.  He  would  concede  to  them  what- 
ever he  might  with  an  approving  conscience,  admit  the 
force  of  their  objections,  if  there  were  force  in  them,  and 
confess  that  he  had  felt  the  same,  and  tell  how  he  was  res- 
cued from  their  power.  Then  he  would  intrench  himself 
upon  the  strong  grounds  of  his  faith,  defend  its  essential 
features  with  a  determined  zeal,  preserve  his  kindness  and 
equanimity  amid  somewhat  acrimonious  assaults,  and  in 
some  pleasing  instances  he  has  convinced  the  gainsayer 
and  relieved  the  doubter.  Not  that  he  always  would 
directly  introduce  the  subject  of  difference,  but  like  Her- 
bert's country  parson,  with  his  great  object  "  he  mingled 
other  discourses  for  conversation's  sake,  and  to  make  his 
higher  purposes  slip  the  more  easily."  He  never  meant 
to  be  rash  in  his  assaults  upon  the  faith  of  his  opponents, 
but  he  premeditated  both  the  subjects  and  the  style  of  his 
discourse  with  them,  and  laid  his  plans  for  skilfully  allur- 
ing them  to  a  religious  life.  He  once  walked  his  room 
until  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  for  the  purpose  of  devising 
the  best  scheme  for  reaching  the  conscience  of  one  whom 
he  pitied,  but  he  could  devise  no  safe  expedient,  and 
therefore  did  nothing. 

In  some  respects  it  would  have  been  wiser  for  himself 
to  associate  more  than  he  did  with  those  who  were  con- 
firmed and  mature  in  the  Christian  life  ;  but  while  there 


84  MEMOIR. 

were  minds  which  could  be  led  by  him  through  a  maze  of 
scepticism,  and  which  needed  the  peculiar  attractions  of 
his  fellowship,  he  chose  to  forego  his  individual  benefit. 
In  a  letter  to  one  who  had  but  recently  entered  upon  a 
religious  course,  he  says,  *'  I  am  rejoiced  that  you  do  not 
think  of  losing  your  interest  in  any  of  your  old  com- 
panions, although  they  may  not  sympathize  fully  with  the 
change  in  your  views  and  feelings.  You  may  do  them 
much  good.  I  know  that  the  intellectual  arrogance  of  a 
vain  philosophy  furnishes  a  most  unprofitable  field  for  la- 
bor, but  even  that  cannot  be  proof  against  the  power  of 
a  holy  life,  certainly  not  against  the  working  of  the  Spirit 
for  which  we  may  always  pray.  Nor  are  we  left  to  our 
religion  as  if  it  could  find  no  response  in  the  intellect  as 
well  as  the  heart.  Let  us  sometimes  meet  the  wisdom  of 
this  world  upon  its  own  ground.  Surely  the  philosophy 
of  a  mind  like  Paul's  is  not  to  be  contemned,  any  more 
than  his  sacred  logic  can  be  grappled  with  and  overthrown. 
With  such  a  one  we  might  be  proud  to  sit  down  and  weep 
over  sin,  to  hang  our  hopes  on  the  foolishness  of  the  cross, 
to  content  ourselves  with  the  simple  revelation  of  myste- 
ries at  which  we  could  but  cry  out,  *  O  the  depth ! ' 
Chiefly  may  we  be  proud  to  sit  down  like  children  at  the 
feet  of  him  who  spake  as  never  man  spake.  Human 
philosophy  never  provided  such  an  instructor,  such  a 
Saviour.  It  is  a  gift  to  the  world  which  meets  the  want  of 
every  mind.  And  he  alone  is  blessed  who  hears  in  the 
words,  *  Come  unto  me,'  an  invitation  to  his  own  world- 
worn  and  unsatisfied  nature,  and  is  determined  to  make 
the  noble  sentiment  of  Chrysostom  his  own,  '  When  we 
rise,  the  cross  —  when  we  lie  down,  the  cross  —  in  all 
places  and  at  all  times,  the  cross,  shining  more  glorious 
than  the  sun.' " 

There  was   a  kind  of  generosity  and  healthfulness  in 
Mr.   Homer's  religious  character.     His   views   of  truth 


MEMOIR*'  ^j^ 

were  rational,  and  he  learned  religious  lessons  from  all 
that  he  read  or  heard.  "  Some  of  my  brethren,"  he  writes, 
"  have  been  a  little  scandalized  at  the  want  of  spirituality 
in  the  exercises  which  I  have  been  describing  to  you. 
But  on  my  mind  they  have  a  decidedly  religious  influ- 
ence. They  send  me  to  my  knees,  that  I  may  ask  God 
for  his  blessing  upon  the  good  counsels  which  are  given 
us,  and  my  own  feeble  endeavors  to  live  up  to  them. 
They  give  me  higher  views  of  my  great  work,  of  my 
solemn  calling ;  and  if  this  be  less  religious  than  such 
a  discourse  as  leaves  us  weary  and  dissatisfied,  then 
religion  is  something  different  from  an  active  consecra-^ 
tion  of  the  soul  to  God."  His  healthful  interest  in  all 
that  is  good  and  graceful,  his  sympathy  with  natural  vir*- 
tue  even  where  but  little  of  it  was  to  be  found,  and  hiy 
kindliness  of  feeling  toward  all  who  belonged  to  his  race,, 
and  especially  toward  those  whose  character  was  unfortu- 
nately misunderstood,  made  him  appear  more  liberal  and. 
catholic  than  some  would  think  either  judicious  or  safe. 
His  error  would  always  be  on  the  side  of  leniency  rather 
than  of  bigotry.  It  was  not  his  highest  aim  to  become 
popular  in  the  church,  but  to  set  an  example  of  enlarged, 
comprehensive  piety,  and  to  secure  the  favor  of  God 
rather  than  the  praise  of  even  good  men.  *'  I  tremble,?** 
he  said,  "  for  the  Christian  who  has  a  high  repute  in  the' 
world  for  his  spiritual  attainments.  I  pray  God  that  he 
may  be  as  humble  as  he  is  famous.  It  is  cruel  for  our 
religious  reviews  to  speak  of  living  authors  as  eminent  for 
piety.  These  authors  will  read  the  commendation,  and* 
if  they  believe  the  half  of  what  is  written,  they  will 
think  more  highly  of  themselves  than  they  ought  to* 
think." 

Besides  his  quickness  of  sympathy  with  all  who  were" 
in  need  of  moral  support,  his  readiness  to  be  touched 
with  the  feeling  of  their  infirmities,  and  his  affable  com- 
8 


86  MEMOIR. 

panionship  even  with  such  as  preferred  to  keep  aloof  from 
religious  society,  the  more  obvious  peculiarities  of  his 
religious  action  were  his  wisdom  in  adopting  fit  means 
for  fit  ends,  and  his  freedom  from  all  hackneyed  and  cant 
phraseology.  He  was  not  so  fond  of  exhorting  men  *'  to 
embrace  the  Saviour,"  as  to  rely  for  salvation  on  the 
atonement ;  nor  did  he  inquire  so  often  "  what  were  their 
frames  of  mind,"  or  "  how  they  had  enjoyed  a  particular 
season,"  as  he  was  of  learning,  in  easy  and  incidental 
converse,  their  spiritual  state.  The  following  is  one 
among  many  specimens  of  his  style  in  exhorting  a  sinner 
to  repentance.  The  reader  will  perceive  how  sedulous 
he  was  to  avoid  the  phrases  which  so  often  annoy  the 
person  whom  they  are  designed  to  benefit,  hardening  the 
heart  because  they  disgust  the  taste. 

"Andover,  March  8,  1840. — It  gives  me  great  pleasure 
to  hear  from  your  letter,  that  some  of  your  own  friends 
are  beginning  to  walk  in  the  good  way.  I  learn 
from  various  sources  that  the  Spirit  of  God  is  now 
very  near  to  the  families  and  churches  of  Boston, 
and  I  have  not  ceased  to  pray  that  you  may  not  Jet  this 
golden  opportunity  pass  unimproved.  Something  has 
whispered  to  me  that  the  harvest  season  of  your  soul  is  at 
hand.  If  you  suffer  it  to  leave  you  before  your  peace  is 
made  with  God,  who  can  predict  that  there  will  ever  be 
another  period  when  the  Spirit  and  the  bride  will  urge 
their  invitation  so  persuasively  as  they  do  now  ?  And  if 
you  resist  these  influences,  what  can  be  expected  for  the 
lesser  influences  which  may  appeal  to  you  in  future,  when 
your  heart  may  be  more  hardened  than  it  is  at  present. 
It  made  me  glad  that  you  could  write  me  of  being  '  at 
times  anxious  for  the  salvation  of  your  soul.'  But  I  re- 
joice with  trembling,  for  I  know  that  Christ  requires 
something  more  than  occasional  anxiety.     He  demands 


MEMOIR.  8T 

that  you  give  yourself  no  rest  till  you  have  yielded  to  his 
claim. I  He  asks  something  more  than  anxiety, — he  asks 
a  full  surrender  of  your  powers  and  affections  to  his  ser- 
vice. He  contemplates  with  no  satisfaction  the  heart  that 
has  been  awakened  by  his  voice  only  to  disobey  it. 
Could  there  be  a  more  reasonable  demand  than  his, — 
that  you  this  instant  fix  your  heart  on  the  love  that  bled 
and  died  for  you,  and  love  it ;  that  without  a  moment's 
delay  you  resolve  to  keep  his  commands,  and  keep  them, 
no  longer  impelled  by  desires  for  your  own  gratification, 
but  sweetly  inclined  to  do  his  will,  through  life  and  for- 
ever. Let  me  entreat  you  not  to  rest  secure  that  you  are 
on  the  way  to  repentance,  for  repentance  is  a  duty  that 
must  be  performed  now,  without  delay.  Let  me  urge 
you  not  to  deceive  yourself  by  imagining  some  more  con- 
venient season,  though  not  far  off,  when  you  can  begin  to 
live  for  God.  JVow  is  the  only  sure  moment  held  out  in 
the  word  of  God,  when  the  soul's  salvation  may  be  se- 
cured. Will  you  not  then  repair  immediately  to  that 
Saviour  who  is  waiting  to  receive  each  lost  and  sinful 
child  for  whom  he  poured  out  his  precious  blood.  Choose 
him  for  your  guide  and  portion  Give  him  the  heart  you 
are  now  wasting  on  the  world.  For  every  earthly  sacri- 
fice he  will  restore  you  an  hundred  fold,  in  the  green  pas- 
tures through  which  he  leads  his  chosen  on  earth,  and  by 
the  river  of  God  in  heaven." 

It  is  as  forming  a  new  variety  among  the  plants  that 
our  heavenly  Father  hath  planted,  that  the  religious  life 
of  Mr.  Homer  elicits  the  interest  of  his  friends.  Each 
differing  beauty  in  the  garden  of  the  Lord  conduces 
to  that  impression  of  completeness  which  ought  to  be 
made  by  the  whole  scene.  The  elements  of  a  religious 
character  are  combined  in  various  proportions  in  different 
individuals.     Each  of  these  combinations  has  its  excel- 


OO  MEMOIB. 

lences ;  no  one  of  them  is  a  standard  for  exclusive  imita- 
tion. They  depend  on  varieties  of  temperament  and  of 
early  training,  and  are  all  deficient  when  compared  with 
the  perfect  model  that  shines  forth  in  the  gospel.  An 
error  of  many  Christians  is,  that  they  attach  an  authority 
to  the  example  of  some  imperfect  man,  and  debar  from 
their  fellowship  all  who  do  not  follow  that  example.  One 
class  of  religious  developments  they  commend  too  exclu- 
sively, and  are  intolerant  of  another  class  which  are 
useful  in  their  own  sphere,  but  are  not  in  sympathy  with 
the  provincial  taste.  Our  duty  is  to  reverence  the  graces 
of  the  Spirit  whatsoever  they  be,  and  to  aim  after  that 
union  of  all  the  virtues  which  we  discover  in  our  great 
Exemplar. 

The  subject  of  this  memoir  had  not  the  deep  self- 
abhorrence  of  him  who  cried  out  in  view  of  his  sins,  "  In- 
finite upon  infinite— infinite  upon  infinite;"  nor  had  he 
the  sombre  and  gloomy  piety  which  made  him  walk  over 
the  ground  like  David  Brainerd,  fearing  that  the  earth 
was  just  ready  to  open  itself  and  swallow  him  up  ;  nor  had 
he  the  bruised  and  morbid  spirit  of  Cowper,  nor  the  impos- 
ing and  awe-inspiring  virtues  of  Payson,  nor  the  spirited 
and  impetuous  piety  of  Baxter,  pressed  on  by  an  irritated 
nerve,  and  looking  for  no  peace  till  he  reached  the  Saint's 
Everlasting  Rest.  There  was  the  calm  and  philosophical 
devotion  of  Bishop  Butler, — there  was  the  mild  and 
equable  and  philanthropic  temper  of  Blair  and  of  Tillot- 
son ;  but  it  was  neither  of  these  that  Mr.  Homer  held  up 
as  his  exclusive  model.  He  had  not  attained  a  perfect 
symmetry  of  Christian  virtue,  but  he  was  aiming  after  it, 
and  striving  to  blend  the  graces  of  the  gospel  into  one 
luminous  yet  mild,  rich  yet  simple  expression. 


MEMOIR.  ^ 


It  is  said  by  some  uninspired  men,  that  our  Saviour 
while  on  earth  never  laughed.  This  assertion,  which  is 
probably  false,  would  prove  nothing  if  it  were  true.  He 
who  left  the  abodes  of  eternal  blessedness  and  was  God 
manifest  in  the  flesh,  he  who  bore  a  world's  redemption 
upon  his  heart,  who  came  that  he  might  suffer,  and  suf- 
fered that  we  might  be  healed,  who  died  to  bear  our  sins, 
and  in  his  death  was  forsaken  even  by  his  Father,  such 
a  being  might  well  do  many  things  which  we  may  not  do, 
and  abstain  from  much  that  we  may  practice.  We,  who 
are  enjoying  the  fruit  of  his  labors,  and  are  living  on  the 
merits  of  his  death,  need  not  be  always  sombre  and  ex- 
ceeding sorrowful. 

It  is  also  said  that  stern  realities  are  before  us,  sick- 
ness, bereavement,  death  ;  and  in  view  of  the  evils  to 
which  we  are  hastening,  we  should  repress  our  sportive 
tendencies  and  prepare  for  the  dark  hour.  It  is  indeed 
good  to  think  of  our  dying  scenes,  to  think  of  them 
often,  so  often  that  we  may  rise  above  the  fear  of  death, 
and  become  conquerors  through  him  that  loved  us.  But 
are  these  to  be  our  only  thoughts  !  Is  there  to  be  no 
variety  of  Christian  feeling  ?  Shall  we  always  speak  on 
the  minor  key  ?  Are  there  not  green  spots  on  the  earth, 
as  well  as  arid  wastes  ?  Are  there  not  bright  seasons  in 
life,  and  joyous  meetings  and  thrilling  prospects,  and  is 
not  religion  too  often  confounded  with  gloom  and  sad- 
ness ? 

The  subject  of  this  memoir  was  a  serious  and  thought- 
ful man,  but  was  religiously  careful  to  prevent  his  serious- 
ness from  being  degraded  into  dulness.  He  was  earnest 
and  solemn  ;  but  *'  as  the  two  greatest  men  and  gravest 
divines  of  their  time,  Gregory  Nazianzen  and  Basil, 
could  entertain  one  another  with  facetious  epistles,"  so  in 
8* 


90  MEMOIR. 

the  present  instance  all  needful  care  was  taken  to  prevent 
solemnity  from  degenerating  into  sanctimony.  He  looked 
upon  sanctimony  as  a  solecism  in  the  expression  of  good 
feeling,  as  a  blunder  of  soberness.  It  is  not  a  rational 
interest  in  grave  and  momentous  concerns,  but  a  stiff  and 
monotonous  gravity  where  there  is  no  need  of  it.  It 
consists  in  grieving  at  a  time  when  joy  would  be  more 
appropriate,  in  wearing  a  sad  countenance  where  God 
and  nature  call  for  smiles,  and  speaking  in  semitones 
where  all  demureness  and  whining  are  like  snow  in  mid- 
summer. It  is  sometimes  a  morbid  dissatisfaction  with 
the  world,  and  is  mistaken  for  a  rational  longing  after 
heaven.  It  is  sometimes  a  sullen  or  a  misanthropic  tem- 
per, and  is  honored  with  the  title  of  hatred  to  the  sins  of 
men.  It  is  a  want  of  religious  health,  and  may  now  and 
then  be  cured  by  an  innocent  joyousness  of  temper  as  by 
a  medicine.  It  is  a  mortifying  fact,  we  are  men  and  not 
spirits.  The  truth  cannot  be  concealed,  we  are  made  of 
the  dust  of  the  earth,  and  in  the  strange  commingling  of 
mind  with  matter,  there  is  a  law  of  contraries  which  is  as 
fixed  as  any  other  law.  If  we  would  be  intellectual  we 
must  eat ;  if  we  would  be  wakeful,  we  must  sleep ;  if  we 
would  toil  hard  and  long,  we  must  rest  betimes ;  and  if 
we  would  be  truly  sober,  sober  as  a  man  is  and  not  as  an 
automaton,  we  must  not  dry  up  the  vein  of  humor, 
which  is  one  of  the  veins  that  help  to  fill  out  the  human 
system. 

The  proper  regulation  of  a  humorous  fancy  was  often 
the  subject  of  Mr.  Homer's  thoughts.  Among  the  gifi^ 
with  which  he  had  been  richly  endued  by  him  who  creates 
nothing  in  vain,  was  a  quick  sense  of  the  ludicrous  ;  and 
this  he  deemed  it  wiser  to  control  than  to  extirpate.  He 
regarded  it  as  a  part  of  his  constitution  and  as  a  fit  an- 
tagonist to  another  part,  a  tendency  to  a  morbid  gloom. 
He  resisted  this  tendency  like  a  wise  and  brave  man,  so 


MEMOIR.  ^] 

that  some  of  his  intimate  companions  were  never  aware  of 
his  possessing  it.  As  he  admired  that  great  law  of  the 
universe  according  to  which  a  single  energy  is  modified 
by  its  opposite,  so  in  his  own  constitution  he  set  one  thing 
over  against  another,  and  by  his  buoyant  sallies  of  wit  he 
diverted  his  mind,  in  a  good  degree,  from  preying  upon 
itself  He  thus  preserved  for  so  long  a  time  and  amid 
wasting  toils  his  uninterrupted  health.  It  was  not  so  easy 
for  him  to  declare  war  against  a  comic  humor,  as  it  is  for 
those  who  are  never  assailed  by  such  an  enemy.  He  had 
no  very  profound  reverence  for  the  self-denial  of  those 
men  who  have  resolved  to  banish  every  witticism  from 
their  thoughts,  if  perchance  one  should  ever  be  suggested 
to  them.  It  is  not  difficult  for  a  man  to  be  grave  who  can 
never  be  otherwise.  On  the  other  hand,  they  who  are 
fond  of  sparkling  humor  are  on  that  account  disposed  to 
commend  it.  Men  love  to  praise  themselves  by  extolling 
such  faculties  as  they  possess,  and  undervaluing  such  as 
are  denied  to  them.  One  thing  is  certain,  we  should 
never  indulge  the  exhilarating  passions  while  we  think 
them  wrong  or  injurious.  Another  thing  is  equally  cer- 
tain, we  should  not  imagine  them  to  be  wrong  or  injurious, 
unless  they  be  so.  For  although  innocent  pleasures 
invigorate  the  moral  sense  while  they  are  viewed  as  inno- 
cent, they  produce  an  opposite  effect  when  their  character 
is  misunderstood.  They  become  guilty  by  being  thought 
so. 

The  person  who  never  smiles,  will  do  a  thousand  worse 
things  from  which  a  smile  would  have  saved  him.  An 
occasional  liberty  of  this  sort  is  one  of  the  safety  valves 
of  the  moral  constitution.  "  Men  only  become  friends," 
says  Dr.  Johnson,  *•  by  community  of  pleasures.  He  who 
cannot  be.softened  into  gayety,  cannot  easily  be  melted 
into  kindness.  Upon  this  principle  one  of  Shakspeare's 
personages  despairs  of  gaining  the  love  of  Prince  John  of 


r 


92  MEMOIR. 

Lancaster,  for  '  he  could  not  make  him  laugh.' "  Dif- 
fering temperaments,  it  is  true,  must  be  governed  by  dif- 
ferent laws,  but  for  every  man  it  is  the  one  great  law,  that 
he  should  exercise  all  the  sensibilities  which  God  has 
given  him,  and  in  the  proportion  which  their  relative  value 
prescribes ;  that  he  should  pass  his  best  hours  in  labor  for 
the  good  of  others,  and  in  his  remaining  hours  should 
refresh  himself  for  his  returning  toils. 

There  was  something  intangible  and  evanescent  in  the 
sportiveness  of  Mr.  Homer.  It  was  so  refined  as  to  elude 
the  perception  of  some.  He  produced  an  effect  when  no 
one  could  tell  how  or  why.  He  was  resorted  to,  as  a 
kind  of  physician,  by  the  intimate  friend  who  had  wearied 
himself  in  intense  thought  and  had  begun  to  suffer  the 
corroding  of  over-strained  faculties.  No  one  but  Dr. 
Barrow  can  describe  his  facetiousness,  and  the  **  unfair 
preacher"  would  say,  that  **  it  consisted  sometimes  in  pat 
allusion  to  a  known  story,  or  in  seasonable  application  of 
a  trivial  saying ;  sometimes  it  lurked  under  an  odd  simili- 
tude, or  was  lodged  in  a  sly  question,  in  a  smart  answer, 
in  a  quirkish  reason,  in  a  shrewd  imitation,  in  cunningly 
diverting  or  cleverly  retorting  an  objection.  Sometimes 
it  was  couched  in  a  bold  scheme  of  speech,  in  a  tart  irony, 
in  a  lusty  hyperbole,  in  a  startling  metaphor,  in  a  plau- 
sible reconciling  of  contradictions,  in  acute  nonsense,  or 
in  sarcastical  twitches  that  are  needful  to  pierce  the  thick 
skins  of  men.  Sometimes  it  arose  only  from  a  lucky  hit- 
ting upon  what  is  strange,  sometimes  from  a  crafty  wresting 
of  obvious  matter  to  the  purpose  ;  often  it  consisted  in 
one  knows  not  what,  and  sprung  up  one  can  hardly  tell 
how.  It  was,  in  short,  a  manner  of  speaking  out  of  the 
simple  and  plain  way,  which  by  a  pretty  surprising 
strangeness  in  conceit  or  expression  did  affect  and  amuse 
the  fancy,  stirring  in  it  some  wonder  and  breeding  some 
delight   thereto,   gratifying    curiosity    with    its   rareness, 


MEMOIR.  99 

diverting  the  mind  from  its  road  of  tiresome  thoughts, 
and  seasoning  matters  otherwise  distasteful  or  insipid 
with  an  unusual  and  thence  grateful  tang." 

The  facetiousness  of  Mr.  Homer  was  less  noticeable  in 
earlier  than  in  later  life.  As  his  application  to  study 
became  the  more  intense,  he  was  the  more  inclined  to 
refresh  his  exhausted  spirit  in  the  exhilarations  of  humor. 
He  multiplied  his  reliefs  when  he  increased  his  tasks. 
As  the  reservoir  deepened  and  widened  the  jet  played 
quicker  and  higher.  When  he  commenced  his  parochial 
labor,  he  deemed  it  advisable  to  check  somewhat  the  out- 
flowings  of  his  amusing  fancy,  but  he  soon  found  that  he 
needed  the  relaxation  which  he  had  abandoned  ;  and  that, 
whatever  others  might  do,  he  could  not  preserve  his  elas- 
ticity in  toil  without  the  aid  of  that  nimble  faculty,  which 
was  designed  to  refresh  a  wearied  spirit  by  its  grotesque 
and  diverting  images.  He  was  as  conscientious  in  his 
indulgence  as  he  was  in  his  labor,  for  he  knew  like  Her- 
bert's country  parson,  that  *'  nature  will  not  bear  ever- 
lasting droopings,  and  that  pleasantness  of  disposition  is 
a  great  key  to  do  good,  not  only  because  all  men  shun  the 
company  of  perpetual  severity,  biit  also  for  that  when 
they  are  in  company,  instructions  seasoned  with  pleasant- 
ness both  enter  sooner  and  root  deeper.  Wherefore  he 
condescended  to  human  frailties,  both  in  himself  and 
others,  and  intermingled  some  mirth  in  his  discourses 
occasionally,  according  to  the  pulse  of  the  hearer." 

It  is  not  pretended  that  Mr.  Homer  always  indulged  his 
facetiousness  with  a  religious  motive,  and  controlled  it 
with  a  firmness  of  principle  that  never  knew  remission. 
He  was  not  one  of  those  perfect  men  who  live  in  biogra- 
phies, but  nowhere  else,  and  who  never  utter  a  word 
which  dying  they  would  wish  to  recall.  All  that  we  care 
to  say  in  his  praise  is,  that  the  charms  of  his  conversation 
were  greater,  and  the  foibles  of  it  less,  than  those  of  most 


94  MEMOIR. 

men,  even  good  men.  His  excellences  were  positive 
rather  than  negative,  and  he  must  have  been  more  than 
human  if  they  were  never  combined  vi^ith.  a  fault.  His 
was  a  mind  of  vivacity  and  ardor,  and  it  was  a  well  regu- 
lated mind  ;  but  these  properties  are  less  favorable  than 
hebetude  and  coldness  to  the  reputation  of  a  perfectly 
faultless  man.  It  was  common  indeed  to  speak  of  him  as 
faultless,  he  was  so  free  from  the  usual  foibles  of  seden- 
tary persons,  from  all  the  malignant  feelings,  from  bigotry 
and  its  kindred  vices.  But  he  well  knew  that  one  who 
ofTendeth  not  in  word  is  a  perfect  man,  and  he  was  quick 
to  confess  that  he  had  never  attained  this  perfection. 
Designing  to  do  good  by  innocent  accommodations 
to  others,  he  sometimes  failed  in  his  plan,  and  found  it 
easier  to  go  down  to  them  than  bring  them  up  to  himself. 
His  virtue  lay  in  attempting  to  do  good  when  others 
would  shrink  back  from  the  effort;  and  if  in  pursuing  his 
purpose  he  found  a  temptation  which  "  proved  too  strong 
for  young  Melancthon,"  even  then  his  failing  leaned  to 
virtue's  side ;  but  he  mourned  over  it  as  one  who  aimed 
to  be  pure  from  the  blood  of  all  men. 

Of  a  summer  evening,  toward  the  close  of  a  session  in 
the  Theological  Seminary,  as  he  was  winding  his  way 
with  a  friend  over  one  of  their  accustomed  walks,  he 
said,  as  nearly  as  can  now  be  remembered,  '*  I  never  ac- 
complished so  much  as  I  have  done  during  the  past  term, 
but  my  influence  has  not  been  precisely  what  I  wish  to 
have  it.  In  my  excessive  labors  I  resorted  to  mental 
relaxation  as  a  duty,  but  I  occasionally  lost  my  regard  to 
it  as  such,  and  sought  it  as  a  mere  pleasure.  I  have  found 
it  hard  to  draw  the  line  between  the  end  of  reason  and 
the  beginning  of  superstition,  and  easy  to  glide  from 
facetiousness  into  what  I  have  heretofore  aimed  to  avoid, 
levity.  But  I  must  check  myself  on  both  sides,  and  in 
shunning  lightness  of  speech  must  not  fall  into  gloomi- 


MEMOIR.  9B 

ness.  When  a  man  has  committed  one  error  he  is 
strongly  tempted  to  rush  into  another  of  a  different  sort. 
We  must  bear  in  mind  that  God  never  bestows  a  favor 
upon  us  which  is  not  subject  to  perversion,  and  an 
enlightened  faith  will  not  allow  us  to  trample  on  a  gift  of 
Providence  because  it  may  be  abused.  If  we  have  a 
sprightliness  of  fancy,  we  must  not  become  torpid  through 
fear  of  being  gay.  I  meant  to  enlarge  my  usefulness  by 
the  very  thing  which  has  diminished  it,  but  I  must  not 
diminish  it  still  more  by  despising  an  indulgence  which  I 
have  used,  at  times,  less  wisely  than  I  meant  to  do." 

He  might  have  added,  that  after  all,  a  failure  in  any 
attempt  suggests  some  reason  for  gratitude.  If  the  at- 
tempt were  a  bad  one,  we  should  be  thankful  that  we  • 
have  failed  in  it ;  if  it  were  a  good  one,  we  should  be 
thankful  that  we  have  made  it,  and  without  the  trial  we 
could  not  have  failed.  He  who  says  nothing  lest  he 
should  err,  is  further  from  perfection  than  he  who  tries  to 
say  a  useful  thing,  even  though  his  success  be  not  equal 
to  his  effort.  There  is  a  kind  of  taciturnity  which  is 
"  wise  in  fools,  and  foolish  in  wise  men."  It  does  no 
prominent  mischief,  and  not  even  a  latent  good.  So 
there  is  a  kind  of  free  converse  which  is  a  sweetener  of 
human  life,  and  which  disarms  men  strangely  of  an  evil 
spirit,  but  which,  though  begun  with  a  right  aim,  ends 
occasionally  in  some  wrong  impression.  It  springs,  how- 
ever, from  a  positive  virtue,  and  this,  even  a  little  of  it,  is 
better  than  blank  stupidity.  Heaven  is  the  only  place 
.  where  we  shall  attain  all  that  is  good  without  any  of  its 
'  alloy  ;  and  where  holiness  will  cease  to  be  regarded  as  a 
negative  thing,  a  mere  freedom  from  foibles  without  the 
energy  of  practical  benevolence. 

In  analyzing  a  character  and  dissecting  each  several 
attribute  by  itself,  there  is  always  danger  of  giving  an 
undue  prominence  to  some  quality  that  is  isolated  from 


VO  MEMOIR. 

its  connections.  It  should  therefore  be  repeated,  that  the 
property  which  we  have  now  been  canvassing  was  not  to 
all  observers  a  striking,  and  to  some  not  even  a  noticeable 
trait  in  Mr.  Homer's  mind.  It  was  not  exhibited  at  all 
times  and  in  all  companies.  His  character  was  compre- 
hensive and  symmetrical.  Viewed  from  different  points 
of  observation  it  disclosed  varying  excellences,  and  no 
two  of  his  friends  would  exactly  agree  in  their  delineation 
of  all  its  features.  It  may  be  said  of  him  as  of  another, 
**  You  have  not  done  with  him  when  you  have  mentioned 

"^  two  or  three  good  traits." 

It  may  also  be  remarked  that  if  his  example  is  to  be 
followed,  it  should  be  followed  in  his  labors  as  well  as  his 
•reliefs.  '•  May  I  read  Shakspeare  as  much  as  he  did  1" 
Yes,  if  you  will  read  it  with  as  philosophical  a  spirit,  and 
pray  as  earnestly  for  the  guiding  influences  of  Heaven. 
"  May  I  take  as  much  interest  in  the  Essays  of  Elia  as 
he  took  ?  "  Yes,  if  you  will  commune  as  he  did  with  the 
itiaster  minds  of  the  ancient  world,  if  you  will  read  the 
Greek  and  Hebrew  Scriptures  with  all  of  his  sympathy 
and  delight,  and  if  like  him  you  will  aim  to  resist  every 
impulse  that  lessens  your  fervor  of  devotion.  He  thought 
so  often  of  the  scenes  that  lie  hidden  behind  the  veil,  his 
conscience  was  so  enlightened,  and  his  sense  of  decorum 
so  exact,  that  he  might  often  be  trusted  where  others  who 
have  not  his  safeguards  would  become  absorbed  in  a  pas- 
time, and  convert  a  means  into  an  end.  He  was  enam- 
ored of  innocence,  and  none  the  less  so  when  he  found  it 
in  pleasures ;  but  too  many  are  enamored  of  pleasure 
none  the  less  when  it  is  devoid  of  innocence.  At  first 
view  it  seems  easy  to  imitate  a  Christian  scholar  in  his 
diversions  ;  but  we  must  remember  that  all  true  divertise- 
ment  presupposes  habitual  toil,  and   that  the  pleasures  of 

,     a  Christian   imply   a   sensitiveness  of  the  moral  faculty. 
He  who  would  imitate  another's  repose  must  qualify  him- 


MEMOIR.  9T 

self  for  it  by  fatigue,  and  the  fatigue  of  a  good  man  is 
obtained  by  useful  exertion. 

MR.  HOMER    AT    SOUTH    BERWICK. 

In  May,  1840,  while  Mr.  Homer  was  a  member  of  the 
Theological  Seminary,  he  spent  nearly  four  weeks  at 
South  Berwick,  Maine  ;  and  by  his  preaching  and  pastor- 
al labor  so  endeared  himself  to  the  Congregational 
church  and  society  in  that  place,  that  they  invited  him  to 
become  their  minister.  So  peculiar  was  the  interest 
which  they  manifested  in  him,  that  after  mature  delibera- 
tion he  accepted  their  call.  He  had  been  earnestly  en- 
treated to  take  the  charge  of  a  more  conspicuous  parish 
in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities  ;  but  he  chose  to  dwell  in  a 
modest  valley,  amid  scenes  that  favored  his  contemplative 
habits,  rather  than  to  live  amid  noise  and  bustle  and 
parade. 

The  town  of  South  Berwick  is  in  the  south-westera 
part  of  the  State  of  Maine,  and  is  separated  from  the- 
State  of  New  Hampshire  by  a  very  narrow  stream.  The 
village  is  near  the  head  of  the  navigation  of  the  Piscata- 
qua,  and  is  about  fourteen  miles  from  Portsmouth,  N.  H. 
It  contains  four  places  for  public  worship ;  the  Methodist, 
Baptist,  Free-will  Baptist,  and  Congregational,  and  half  a 
mile  from  it  is  a  small  Episcopal  church.  It  also  con- 
tains a  large  and  respectably  endowed  Academy,  which 
was  founded  as  early  as  1792,  and  has  exerted  an  impor- 
tant influence  upon  the  character  of  the  surrounding 
population.  From  some  of  the  eminences  in  South 
Berwick  there  is  a  beautiful  view  of  the  village  of  Great 
Falls,  four  miles  toward  the  north-west,  and  of  several 
cascades  upon  the  stream  that  winds  through  the  valley. 
Agamenticus  rises  about  ten  miles  distant,  and  adds  a 
singular  charm  to  the  southern  prospect  from  the  village. 
9 


98  MEMOIR. 

There  are  three  large  manufacturing  establishments  in 
the  place,  and  the  town  presents  many  advantages  for 
commercial  enterprise.  It  contains  two  thousand  three 
hundred  inhabitants.  The  church  over  which  Mr.  Homer 
was  ordained  consists  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
members,  and  the  congregation  to  which  he  preached 
varied  from  two  hundred  and  fifty  to  three  hundred. 
Twenty-five  young  men  from  this  small  town  have  been 
graduated  at  our  collegiate  institutions,  and  Mr.  Homer 
ordinarily  preached  to  twelve  or  fifteen  persons  who  have 
received  a  liberal  education. 

On  the  sixth  of  October,  1840,  he  was  married,  at 
Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  to  Miss  Sarah  M.  Brown,  daughter  of 
Mr.  James  F.  Brown  of  Boston,  and  sister  of  Mr. 
Homer's  early  and  lamented  friend.  On  the  eleventh  of 
November  he  was  ordained  at  South  Berwick.  A  mem- 
ber ^  of  the  Council  that  ordained  him  has  written  the 
following  description  of  his  appearance  at  this  time. 
**  He  discovered  at  his  examination  a  mind  that  was 
habituated  to  original  thought.  His  religious  views  were 
decidedly  evangelical,  and  had  been  embraced  after  a 
patient  study.  He  had  not  adopted  a  creed  because  it  was 
recommended  by  great  names,  and  he  avoided  stereotyped 
phraseology  in  the  statement  of  his  faith.  He  had 
studied  the  Bible  for  himself,  and  was  cautious  of 
stating  his  views  more  strongly  than  his  convictions 
would  justify.  He  had  evidently  attended  to  the  contro- 
verted points  in  metaphysics  and  philosophy  which  have 
relation  to  religious  faith  ;  and  when  questions  were  put 
to  him  involving  disputes  of  this  nature,  he  was  wary  in 
his  answers,  for  he  anticipated  other  questions  that  might 
be  in  reserve.  He  saw  whither  the  inquiry  would  lead. 
The  testimony  of  the  Scriptures  was  to  him  a  sufficient 

^  Rev.  Silas  Aiken,  late  pastor  of  Park-street  Chxircli,  Boston,  Mass. 


MEMOIR.  VSI 

ground  of  faith  ;  but  in  matters  of  doubtful  disputation, 
he  would  declare  a  belief  only  so  far  as  he  had  found 
reasons  for  one.  He  had  marked  the  proper  limits  of 
faith.  On  subjects  intrinsically  difficult  or  doubtful,  he 
expressed  himself  with  reserve.  Where  many  young 
men,  less  acquainted  with  the  history  of  religious  opin- 
ions, would  have  blushed  to  confess  ignorance,  he  freely 
declared  his  doubts,  and  seemed  aware  that  others  were 
equally  in  the  dark  with  himself.  In  a  word,  it  was  obvi- 
ous that  the  principles  and  habits  of  mind,  so  early 
formed,  gave  promise  of  rare  ability  in  stating,  explaining 
and  defending  divine  truth." 

The  following  is  the  Creed  which  Mr.  Homer  read 
before  the  Council,  and  from  which  he  had,  of  set 
purpose,  excluded  many  of  the  technical  phrases  of 
theology. 

"  I  believe  in  the  existence  of  God.  I  find  that  such  a  being  is 
demanded  by  my  moral  nature,  and  the  evidence  of  my  own  spirit 
is  confirmed  by  what  I  behold  of  the  marks  of  design  around  me 
and  within  me. 

God  has  given  in  his  word  an  infallible  revelation  of  his  own 
character,  and  of  his  relation  to  his  creatures.  From  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  and  from  that  light  which  every  human  being  possesses 
in  his  own  soul,  should  be  compiled  his  system  of  religioiis  belief. 

I  accordingly  believe  that  God  is  one,  that  he  is  absolutely  eter- 
nal, without  beginning  and  without  end,  and  as  he  exists  without 
succession,  in  him  there  can  be  neither  change  nor  shadow  of  turn- 
ing. That  he  has  knowledge  and  power  infinitely  higher  in  kind 
and  degree  than  the  knowledge  and  power  of  his  creatures,  and 
that  there  is  no  place  in  his  universe  where  these  attributes  do  not 
extend  and  act.  I  believe  that  to  him  may  be  ascribed  goodness, 
mercy  and  grace,  wisdom,  justice  and  veracity.  These  truths  are 
most  of  them  rendered  highly  probable  by  reason,  and  all  of  them 
are  removed  beyond  a  doubt  by  the  express  declaration  of  the 
Bible. 

A  contemplation  of  the  character  of  God  proves  how  incompre- 
hensible are  his  perfections,  and  renders  it  highly  improbable  that 
the  mode  of  his  existence  would  be  similar  to  that  of  his  creatures. 


100  MEMOIR. 

Accordingly  I  am  fully  prepared  to  believe  wliat  the  Scriptures 
assert  of  the  divinity  of  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost,  and  in  my 
faith,  though  not  in  my  reason,  to  reconcile  the  Trinity  with  the 
Unity  of  God. 

I  believe  that  God  has  known  and  determined,  from  all  eternity, 
every  thing  which  exists.  As  a  distinction  is  made  in  his  admin- 
istration between  the  righteous  and  the  wicked,  I  believe  that  it 
was  always  intended.  For  wise  reasons,  known  only  to  himself, 
God  selected  certain  of  his  creatures  to  be  the  subjects  of  grace, 
and  the  heirs  of  glory ;  while  he  determined  to  leave  others  to 
perish  in  their  sins.  At  the  same  time,  as  the  divine  decree  is  not 
the  rule  of  human  conduct,  I  shall  preach  that  man  is  as  free  and 
independent  in  his  moral  and  religious  actions,  as  he  is  in  the  ptir- 
suit  of  his  secular  business,  and  that  every  man  can  obey  the  de- 
mands of  the  gospel,  and  will  be  punished  for  neglecting  to  avail 
himseK  of  his  ability. 

I  believe  that  our  first  parents  were  for  a  time  perfectly  holy,  but 
when  they  disobeyed  the  command  of  God,  they  fell  at  once  from 
their  pure  estate,  and  all  their  posterity  were  involved  in  the  con- 
sequences of  their  fall.  Every  human  being  now  comes  into  the 
world  with  a  bias  to  sin  rather  than  to  holiness,  and  all  his  moral 
acts  are  wrong  until  he  becomes  regenerated  by  the  Spirit  of  God. 
The  depravity  of  man  implies  a  want  of  will,  rather  than  a  natural 
inability  to  obey  the  divine  command.  Nothing  but  the  special 
influences  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  operating  through  the  truth,  will 
change  this  perverse  inclination,  and  make  the  sinner  willing  in 
the  day  of  God's  power.  And  he,  who  is  once  radically  changed 
in  his  moral  character,  wiU  be  kept  by  divine  grace  from  falling 
into  final  impenitence  and  ridn. 

In  the  renewed  man  there  is  still  much  of  remaining  imperfec- 
tion, and  no  subsequent  obedience  can  atone  for  previous  sins. 
God  has  in  mercy  provided  a  way  of  pardon  for  all  men,  thiough 
the  death  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  Mediator.  By  faith  in  this  atoning 
Saviour  we  may  be  justified,  not  through  the  merit  there  is  in 
faith,  but  through  the  grace  that  accepts  a  vicarious  atonement  for 
our  sins. 

I  believe  that  after  death  there  is  a  retribution,  the  reprobate 
being  cast  into  a  state  of  suflering,  and  the  elect  being  introduced 
to  scenes  of  joy.  Not  however  until  after  the  resurrection  and 
judgment,  will  the  misery  of  the  one  or  happiness  of  the  other  be 
consunmiated.     The  soul  is  immortal,  and  every  circumstance  in 


MEMOIR.  101 

its  nature,  and  every  indication  of  Scripture  favor  the  idea  tliat  its 
retribution,  for  joy  or  for  wo,  will  be  as  lasting  as  its  existence." 

Soon  after  his  ordination,  Mr.  Homer  invited  his  parish- 
ioners to  meet  him  of  an  evening,  and  to  hear  his  plans 
for  future  labor.  He  stated  to  them  that  on  the  Wednes- 
day, Thursday  and  Friday  afternoons  of  each  week,  he 
should  make  pastoral  visits  ;  that  on  Monday,  Tuesday 
and  Saturday  afternoons  he  would  be  happy  to  see  them 
at  his  lodgings  ;  that  he  should  be  in  his  study  every  fore- 
noon, and  then  could  not  allow  himself  to  be  interrupted, 
unless  in  case  of  urgent  necessity ;  that  he  could  not 
mingle  in  their  social  parties,  for  his  evenings  were  too 
precious  to  be  lost  from  his  study.^  He  urged  his  hearers 
to  regularity  in  their  attendance  upon  the  services  of  the 
sanctuary  ;  he  assured  them  that  he  should  labor  on  his 
sermons,  and  should  preach  on  the  Sabbath  what  he  had 
written  during  the  week,  whether  his  auditors  were  many 
or  few  ;  that  he  should  have  no  rainy-day  discourses  for 
rainy-day  audiences,  and  sun-shining  sermons  for  a  fair 
weather  congregation,  but  should  give  to  the  few  who  dis- 
regarded the  storm,  what  he  had  prepared  for  the  many 
who  were  more  afraid  of  an  unpleasant  atmosphere  than 
of  spiritual  poverty.  His  remarks  on  this  occasion  pro- 
duced a  salutary  effect.  The  number  of  those  who 
attended  church  on  the  unpleasant  Sabbaths  of  his  min- 
istry was  greater  by  half  than  had  formerly  ventured 
forth  in  a  storm  ;  and  though  the  frowning  of  the  ele- 
ments would  still  deter  some  of  his  people  from  visiting 
the  sanctuary,  it  had  less  influence  on  his  own  congrega-r 
tion  than  on  any  other  in  the  village. 

The  industry  and  system  to  which  he  had  habituated 

*  In  a  letter  to  a  friend  he  says,  "  A  minister  must  preserve  the 
habits  of  a  student,  in  other  words,  the  student  mill  out,  or  r^itljer 
will  not  out,  winter  evenings." 
9*5 


"ftfe 


MEMOIR. 


himself  in  the  preparatory  schools  were  now  his  second 
nature.  He  had  never  quieted  himself  in  a  loose  and  irreg- 
ular discipline,  with  the  hope  that  when  he  entered  upon 
active  life,  all  the  requisite  good  habits  would  come  to 
him  of  their  own  accord.  He  prescribed  certain  hours 
for  familiar  converse  with  his  friends,  certain  hours  for 
his  classical  studies,  three  times  a  day  for  his  private  de- 
votions, and,  with  his  characteristic  system,  he  wrote  the 
names  of  different  individuals  in  his  society,  for  whom  he 
was  to  offer  especial  prayer  on  successive  days. 

His  plans  for  beneficent  action  are  said  by  his  parish- 
ioners to  have  been  formed  and  executed  with  peculiar 
sagacity  and  tact.  He  first  endeavored  to  revive  the  Sab- 
bath School,  and  by  skilful  efforts  he  gave  an  impulse  to 
it  which  it  is  hoped  will  be  productive  of  lasting  good. 
He  introduced  an  additional  number  of  both  teachers  and 
pupils  into  the  school,  and  made  it  attractive  to  the  old  as 
well  as  the  young.  He  was  peculiarly  attentive  to  the 
younger  classes,  and  strongly  attached  them  to  himself 
When  visiting  a  family,  he  was  fond,  like  Robert  Hall,  of 
**  stealing  in  earlier  than  he  was  expected,  that  he  might 
for  a  time  share  in  the  gambols  and  gayety  of  the  chil- 
dren." He  instituted  a  new  plan  for  conducting  the  exer- 
cises of  a  weekly  religious  meeting,  and  for  promoting 
among  his  people  a  systematic  acquaintance  with  divine 
truth.  On  the  Friday  evening  of  one  week,  he  would 
propose  a  subject,  divide  it  into  several  branches,  and 
appoint  three  or  four  members  of  his  church  to  investigate 
each  of  these  different  parts,  and  state  the  results  of  their 
investigation  on  the  next  Friday  evening.  After  their 
remarks,  he  gave  his  own  views  of  the  subject,  and  they 
were  always  such  as  indicated  a  studious  preparation. 
Having  adopted  several  other  expedients  for  quickening 
the  religious  feeling  of  his  people,  he  devised  a  plan  for 
awakening  among  them  a  deeper  interest  in  the  cause  of 


MEMOIR. 


m 


foreign  missions,  and  inducing  them  to  contribute  more 
generously  to  our  various  benevolent  societies.  He  also 
intended  to  deliver  an  address  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
on  the  connection  between  taste  and  religion,  and  hoped 
to  persuade  his  fellow-citizens  to  adorn  their  village  with 
ornamental  trees  and  with  promenades. 

The  results  of  his  brief  ministry  cannot  be  estimated 
with  precision.  It  is  always  difficult  to  ascertain  the 
amount  of  evil  which  a  preacher  prevents,  as  well  as  the 
amount  of  good  which  he  accomplishes  ;  to  ascertain  also 
those  general  impressions  of  his  ministry,  which  are  often 
more  important  than  particular  though  striking  instances 
of  individual  benefit.  He  united  parties  among  his  people  f 
that  had  previously  been  discordant.  He  allured  to  the  ^  j 
sanctuary  men  who  had  formerly  forsaken  it.  He  gave  j 
to  all  an  exalted  idea  of  the  pulpit,  of  a  sermon,  of  the  / 
sacred  oflice.  He  taught  them  to  honor  the  ministry  for 
its  relations  to  the  literature  and  the  politics  and  the  lib- 
erties, as  well  as  to  the  virtues  of  the  country.  He  pro- 
duced such  an  impression  upon  his  hearers  as  they  had 
never  felt  before,  that  holiness  of  heart  is  essential  to  all 
that  is  most  lovely  and  alluring,  and  that  opposition  to 
evangelical  truth  is  neither  rational,  nor  safe,  nor  manly. 
From  his  ministry  of  four  months,  his  professional  breth- 
ren may  learn  both  the  real  and  factitious  value  of  a  sound 
scholarship,  in  augmenting  the  influence  of  a  preacher, 
in  fitting  the  style  of  his  discourses  for  a  favorable  opera- 
tion upon  his  hearers,  and  predisposing  them  to  rely  on 
his  statements  as  the  statements  of  a  practised  thinker. 
They  may  also  learn  the  eloquence  which  there  is  in  an 
earnest  desire  to  do  good.  It  was  the  simple-hearted  wish 
of  Mr.  Homer  to  promote  the  religious  welfare  of  his 
people.  They  saw  it,  they  felt  it,  they  gave  him  their 
confidence  as  the  reward  of  it.  They  loved  him  because 
he  loved  them.     The  religious  zeal  of  a  benevolent  and 


y^-O^   Of  THE 


m 


MEMOIR. 


refined  and  honest  man,  especially  when  it  is  conjoined 
with  the  character  as  well  as  the  reputation  of  a  scholar, 
will  always  exert  an  influence,  and  often  command  hom- 
age. It  will  receive  honor  from  the  piety,  the  conscience 
of  some,  the  amiable  sentiment,  the  good  sense  of  others. 
How  long  Mr.  Homer  would  have  attracted  the  admi- 
ration which  he  received  in  the  morning  of  his  ministerial 
life,  cannot  be  determined.  His  pungent  appeals  to  the 
conscience  of  his  hearers  might  have  increased  his  real 
power  over  them,  and  at  the  same  time  have  diminished 
his  seeming  popularity;  for  it  is  not  always  the  most  pop- 
ular minister  who  is  the  most  influential.  But  until  the 
time  of  his  death,  the  interest  of  his  people  in  his  minis- 
trations was  regularly  increasing.  His  visits  became 
more  and  more  acceptable,  every  sermon  was  thought  to  be 
more  powerful  than  the  preceding,  and  his  last  appearance 
in  the  pulpit  is  described  by  them  as  if  they  had  seen  an 
angel.  •*  Those  who  were  absent  from  his  church  on  a 
Sabbath  would  often  come  to  me,"  said  one  of  his  parish- 
ioners, "  and  ask  me  to  repeat  what  I  could  remember  of 
his  sermon  ;  and  his  arrangement  was  so  lucid  that  I  could 
easily  recall  his  main  ideas."  Many  of  his  hearers  are 
described  as  fixing  their  eyes  upon  him  steadfastly,  and  as 
giving  to  him  that  earnest  attention  which  a  minister  loves 
to  receive.  "  The  house  was  so  still  that  the  slightest 
whisper  could  be  heard  in  it."  He  secured  the  esteem 
of  other  denominations  as  well  as  of  his  own,  and  was 
useful  not  only  as  the  minister  of  a  sect,  but  as  a  teacher 
of  the  whole  community.  After  the  lapse  of  more  than 
a  year,  his  incidental  remarks  are  daily  quoted,  and  the 
veneration  for  his  memory  has  excited  the  wonder  of 
strangers  who  have  casually  visited  the  place.  So  strong 
and  deep  and  long  continued  an  impression  upon  so  intel- 
ligent a  people,  is  one  sign  of  his  power  and  worth.  Had 
he  labored  among  them  a  third  of  a  century,  rather  than 


MEMOIR.  105 

a  third  of  a  year,  we  might  have  anticipated  the  influence 
that  is  still  exerted  by  his  precepts  and  example.  But  we 
*  did  not  expect  that  he  would  have  compressed  into  four 
months,  the  efficiency  of  a  long  life.  "  Honorable  age  is 
not  that  which  standeth  in  length  of  time,  nor  which  is 
measured  by  number  of  years ;  but  wisdom  is  the  gray 
hair  unto  men,  and  an  unspotted  life  is  old  age." 

MR.  HOMER  AS  A  PREACHER. 

There  are  various  standards  of  pulpit  eloquence,  no 
one  of  which  can  be  praised  to  the  exclusion  of  any  other. 
"  Every  man  hath  his  proper  gift  of  God,  one  after  this 
manner,  and  another  after  that."  A  true  liberality  of 
Christian  taste  will  be  gratified  with  the  doctrines  of  the 
gospel  though  they  be  administered  in  varying  forms.  All 
ministers  need  not  write  and  speak  "just  as  we  do." 
Men  of  narrow  views  would  fain  banish  from  the  pulpit 
every  preacher  who  is  not  elegant  and  refined,  but  the 
great  Reformer  said,  "  Human  nature  is  a  rough  thing, 
and  must  have  some  rough  ministers  to  chastise  it." 
There  is  a  class  of  the  community  who  never  will  be 
reached  by  softnesses  and  delicacies  of  language.  We 
often  hear  it  said  that  all  abstruse  reasoning  and  recondite 
speculation  are  unseemly  for  the  pulpit.  But  there  are 
some  hearers  who  demand  a  philosophical  style  of  address, 
and  will  listen  to  none  but  philosophical  preachers. 
Others  are  prejudiced  against  the  refinements  of  language 
and  the  graces  of  delivery.  No  one,  they  say,  was  ever 
converted  by  a  metaphor,  and  poetry  is  neither  **  doctrine, 
nor  reproof,  nor  correction,  nor  instruction  in  righteous- 
ness." But  there  are  men  of  poetical  fancy  in  our  par- 
ishes, and  they  are  as  immortal  as  men  of  business,  and 
have  as  much  need  of  salvation,  and  are  as  much  entitled 
to  be  addressed  in   an  ornate  style  as  children   are  in   a 


106  MEMOIR. 

simple  one,  or  mathematicians   in   a  dry  one.     "  Are  all 
apostles  ?    are   all    prophets  ?  are    all   teachers  ?    are    all 
workers  of  miracles  ?  have   all   gifts   of  healing  ?  do   all  ^ 
speak  with  tongues  ?  do   all   interpret  1     But   covet  earn- 
estly the  best  gifts." 

It  is  not  claimed  that  Mr.  Homer's  discourses  present  a 
model  to  which  all  ministers  should  conform,  but  they 
meet  one  demand  of  our  natures  which  is  too  seldom 
gratified.  He  was  not  a  rude  preacher,  but  he  was  plain- 
spoken  when  he  thought  it  desirable  to  be  so  ;  he  was  not 
distinctively  a  metaphysical  preacher,  but  he  did  not 
always  avoid  severity  of  argument.  He  had  more  depth 
of  thought  than  men  of  his  physical  conformation  are 
often  supposed  to  have.  He  was  not  large  of  stature,  he 
walked  with  sprightliness,  his  voice  though  masculine  was 
not  deep-toned,  and  he  was  not  clumsy  in  his  attitudes. 
Now  a  man  who  is  thus  formed  will  be  regarded  by  some 
as  less  profound,  than  those  who  have  a  heavy  movement 
and  a  very  deep  enunciation.  So  much  are  men  affected, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  by  the  outward  appearance, 
in  judging  of  the  inward  character.  The  nodosities  of 
the  oak  are  deemed  essential  to  its  strength.  But  if  the 
subject  of  this  memoir  had  been  inferior  to  the  majority 
of  students  in  mental  vigor  or  acumen,  he  would  not 
have  been  so  enthusiastic  and  persevering  in  his  study  of 
the  Greek  orators  and  critics,  nor  would  he  have  selected 
Bishop  Butler  as  the  companion  of  his  leisure  hours. 
But  he  was  sensitive  rather  than  profound,  and  literary 
rather  than  scientific.  His  superiority  lay  in  his  quick 
sympathies  with  the  beautiful  and  the  good,  in  his  ardent 
and  varied  emotion,  and  in  the  versatile  energies  of  his 
mind.  He  was  a  man  of  taste.  He  would  gaze  in 
silence  at  an  Andover  sunset  until  the  last  golden  tint  had 
vanished.  He  would  instinctively  stop  his  walk,  that  he 
might  listen  to  the  song  of  a  bird.     Some  graceful  or  ma- 


MEMOIR.  107 

jestic  sentence  in  Jeremy  Taylor  or  Richard  Hooker  was 
ever  present  in  his  memory.  By  his  multifarious  reading, 
especially  in  the  ancient  classics,  he  had  acquired  a  flex- 
ible style  of  composition  ;  and  this,  united  with  his  fresh- 
ness of  feeling,  his  earnest  and  natural  delivery,  gave  an 
extemporaneous  air  to  his  written  discourses.  It  was  by 
his  delicacy  of  sentiment,  his  elastic  fancy,  and  the  grace- 
fulness of  his  inner  and  outer  man,  that  he  would  most 
easily  have  distinguished  himself  above  his  brethren  in 
the  pulpit.  Those  who  read  his  published  sermons  will 
perceive  his  blandness  of  temper,  and  the  mellowness  of 
his  social  and  Christian  spirit,  his  refined  and  classic 
taste,  his  well  stored  memory.  But  some  of  his  qualities 
as  a  preacher  are  not  so  distinctly  visible  in  his  printed 
discourses,  as  in  those  which  are  excluded  by  want  of 
space  from  the  present  volume.  A  few  of  the  character- 
istics which  are  prominent  in  his  unpublished  sermons 
may  here  be  mentioned.     • 

He  was  a  systematic  preacher.  It  is  not  meant  that 
he  adjusted  the  thoughts  of  every  single  discourse  with 
logical  exactness,  but  each  of  his  sermons  was  a  part  of 
an  extended  series.  No  one  of  them  was  a  mere  isolated 
address.  This  discourse  was  designed  to  modify  the  im- 
pression of  that,  and  that  was  intended  to  prepare  the 
way  for  a  third,  and  the  third  was  not  complete  without 
reference  to  others.  He  had  formed  the  plan  for  his 
pulpit  efforts  for  several  months  or  even  years  to  come. 
He  had  already  commenced  two  series  of  doctrinal  ser- 
mons, although  he  deemed  it  inadvisable  to  announce  the 
fact  that  he  was  preaching  the  parts  of  a  system.  One 
of  these  courses  was  on  the  character  and  state  of 
man  ;  another  on  the  existence  and  attributes  of  God. 
He  had  written  two  sermons  in  the  first  course  and  four 
in  the  second,  and  had  sketched  the  topics  and  divisions 
for  seven  or  eight  lectures  in  a  third  course. 


1^  MEMOIR. 

Mr.  Homer  aimed  to  unite  in  his  sermons,  the  doctrinal, 
the  historical,  and  the  practical  element.  "  It  will  be  one 
object  of  my  preaching,"  he  said  from  the  pulpit  on  the 
Sabbath  after  his  ordination,  "  to  present  in  a  systematic 
form  the  doctrines  of  our  evangelical  faith — such  as  I 
find  them  in  the  word  of  God,  or  the  revelation  of  our 
own  consciousness.  I  am  persuaded  that  there  is  a  way 
of  making  the  sternest  theology  come  home  to  the  human 
bosom,  and  of  clothing  the  dry  bones  of  metaphysical 
belief  with  the  breathing  forms  of  life.  I  believe  that 
the  minds  of  my  people  will  be  greatly  enlarged  and  in- 
vigorated by  contemplating  such  subjects  as  the  nature 
and  character  and  law  of  God,  the  free  agency  and 
immortality  of  the  human  soul,  and  I  am  encouraged  in 
guiding  you  to  these  investigations,  by  the  assurance  that 
though  they  lead  us  through  fields  of  mystery,  though 
they  demand  a  concentration  of  thought  from  which  the 
effeminate  may  well  shrink,  .though  they  constrain  us 
often,  after  all  our  toils,  to  sit  down  and  mourn  over  our 
own  littleness,  yet  they  all  end  in  practical  religion,  in  a 
clearer  defining  of  the  relation  between  God  and  man,  in 
a  louder  enforcement  of  human  duty,  in  a  surer  guidance 
to  heaven. 

"  I  shall  aim  also  to  have  much  of  my  preaching  his- 
torical in  its  style,  because  I  look  upon  that  historical 
book,  the  Bible,  as  a  good  model  for  the  discourses  of  the 
pulpit.  The  taste  for  history  in  the  human  mind  ought 
to  be  gratified,  especially  when  it  can  be  made  the  avenue 
for  communicating  so  much  spiritual  truth.  The  scenes 
and  characters  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament,  from  the 
antiquated  form  in  which  they  are  presented,  and  chiefly 
from  our  familiarity  with  the  language  of  the  story,  have 
lost  their  interest  to  us.  We  read  over  and  over  again 
the  most  thrilling  incidents  with  no  emotion.  Now  here 
is  a  field  for  the  preacher  to  enter,  laborious  indeed,  but 


MEMOIR. 


tt09 


in  the  highest  degree  exciting  and  useful.  He  may  em- 
bellish the  old  narrative  with  the  lights  of  modern  study, 
he  may  transform  the  language  of  history  into  a  dramatic 
and  life-like  diction,  bringing  the  scene  home  to  the  sym- 
pathies of  his  people,  and  then  applying  the  distant  and 
past,  to  the  present  and  near. 

"  But  it  is  the  chief  intellectual  glory  of  evangelical 
preaching  that  it  is  addressed  to  the  conscience.  It  is 
interesting  to  notice  how  the  ministry  that  arouses  this 
inward  monitor,  that  calls  into  exercise  this  great  faculty 
of  the  soul,  will  preserve  its  power  and  exert  its  charm  over 
intellectual  men.  I  wish  to  be  distinctly  understood  at 
the  outset  of  my  ministry,  that  I  expect  to  gratify  rather 
than  offend  men  by  stirring  up  their  consciences,  and  if 
I  am  ever  so  unfortunate  as  to  lose  the  respect  and  friend- 
ship of  my  people,  I  hope  I  shall  have  sense  enough  to 
attribute  the  failure  to  any  thing  rather  than  the  close- 
ness of  my  preaching.  I  should  be  as  much  ashamed  of" 
myself,  if  I  could  give  no  better  reason  for  losing  my 
hearers,  as  I  should  of  those  who  could  dislike  me  for  no- 
better  cause.  There  was  a  distinguished  evangelical 
divine,  who  commenced  his  ministrations  in  one  of  our 
cities,  at  a  time  when  a  lax  theology  had  begun  to  *  fill' 
the  pulpit  and  empty  the  pews.'  Crowds  thronged 
around  the  man  of  God,  and  among  them  the  men  of 
fashion  and  might  and  mind,  whose  names  were  enrolled 
among  the  congregations  of  the  chapels  of  ease,  but 
whom  the  Sabbath  evening  lecture  would  gather  in  to 
listen  with  awe  and  admiration  to  the  doctrines  they 
would  rather  die  than  believe.  Sometimes  the  appeal 
was  so  pungent  that  they  went  out  foaming  with  rage,, 
and  vowing  that  they  would  hear  the  fanatic  no  more^ 
Still,  there  was  a  strange  charm  in  that  eye  of  reproof^ 
which  followed  them  through  the  week,  and  the  next- 
Sabbath  evening  bell  would  find  them  turning  the  de- 
10 


^^  MEMOIR. 

spised  corner,  and  making  their  way  through  the  crowded 
aisle,  and  bracing  themselves  for  another  shock.  The 
truth  is,  there  was  a  demand  in  their  higher  nature  which 
was  not  met  by  the  weak  and  sickly  homilies  of  their 
own  preachers.  They  wanted  something  vigorous  to 
grapple  with,  something  that  stirred  up  from  the  lowest 
depths  the  stagnant  elements  of  their  mojal  nature. 
They  wanted  stronger  meat  to  satisfy  the  importunate 
cravings  of  minds  that  were  well  fed  on  every  other  sub- 
ject but  religion.  And  they  found  what  they  wanted  for 
intellectual  gratification  in  those  manly  views  of  doctrine, 
and  those  plain  reproofs  of  sin.  Tell  me  not  then,  ye 
timid  spirits,  oh  talk  not  of  the  inexpediency  of  preaching 
to  the  conscience,  when  a  distinguished  writer  has  said, 
'  Raise  me  but  a  barn,  in  the  very  shadow  of  St.  Paul's 
cathedral,  and  with  the  conscience-searching  powers  of  a 
Whitefield,  I  will  throng  that  barn  with  a  multitude  of 
eager  listeners,  while  the  matins  and  vespers  of  the 
cathedral  shall  be  chanted  to  the  statues  of  the  mighty 
dead.' "  - 

In  his  practical  preaching,  Mr.  Homer  designed  to  be 
moral  as  well  as  evangelical.  He  had  himself  been  de- 
sirous of  attaining  the  virtues  of  a  man,  as  well  as  the 
graces  of  a  Christian,  and  it  was  natural  to  expect  that 
he  would  strive  to  ornament,  as  well  as  to  sanctify  the 
souls  of  his  people.  His  sermons  are  in  this  respect  a 
fair  index  of  his  character.  In  a  letter  to  a  candidate  for 
the  ministry,  he  says,  "  Let  me  advise  you  to  dwell  much 
in  your  sermons  on  an  elevated  Christian  morality. 
Such  a  subject  would  be  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  wants 
of  such  a  people  as  yours,  and  is  required  for  counteract- 
ing the  Antinomian  tendencies  of  the  present  age.  This 
is  a  subject  which  has  been  forced  upon  me  of  late,  by 
flagrant  instances  of  criminality  in  the  church  and  the 


MEMOIR.  tit 

ministry,  which  seem  to  indicate  that  one  can  be  a  good 
Christian  and  a  very  bad  man.  The  fact  seems  to  be, 
that  in  avoiding  the  cold  and  sordid  system  of  those  who 
choose  to  call  themselves  rational  rather  than  evangelical, 
some  of  us  have  run  to  the  other  extreme.  What  are 
technically  called  the  *  doctrines  of  grace/  have  been  so 
exclusively  preached  by  some,  that  their  relative  beauty  is 
impaired  and  the  symmetry  of  the  character  formed  on 
them  is  disturbed.  There  are  Christians  who  seem  to 
have  not  very  elevated  views  of  the  duty  of  speaking  and 
acting  the  truth,  and  of  other  matters  equally  trite  and 
simple.  The  minister,  who  in  the  present  day  should 
preach  up  the  ten  commandments  with  the  aid  of  our  Sa- 
viour's exegesis,  and  should  follow  them  into  all  their 
spiritual  signification,  would  do  much  to  purify  the 
church.  He  would  secure  one  of  the  chief  beauties  of 
grace  which  la  fruit.  He  would  come  down  artfully,  yet 
with  all  the  power  of  the  gospel,  upon  the  moral  men  who 
care  not  for  religion ;  for  where  is  there  true  morality, 
spiritual  obedience  to  the  law  on  Sinai,  except  in  the 
bosom  that  has  felt  the  power  of  the  cross  %  He  would 
teach  his  people  the  important  truth  that  the  best  Chris- 
tians are  not  those  who  merely  feel,  but  those  who  do 
likewise." 

It  has  already  been  remarked  that  Mr.  Homer  was 
faithful  in  his  public  reproofs  of  sin.  Some  of  his 
friends,  knowing  the  gentleness  of  his  nature,  supposed 
that  he  might  be  more  complaisant  in  the  pulpit  than 
bold  ;  but  his  character  was  versatile,  and  when  he  be- 
came a  preacher  he  ceased  to  be  a  classical  annotator. 
He  accommodated  himself  at  once  to  the  exigencies  of 
his  office.  If  there  be  one  feature  of  his  unpublished 
sermons  more  noticeable  than  another,  it  is  the  pungency, 
the  severity  of  his  denunciation  against  sin   and  sinners, 


112  MEMOIR. 

against  the  pride  of  the  rich,  the  envy  and  demureness  o{ 
the  poor,  the  ingratitude  of  both  classes  to  Him  who  being 
rich  became  poor  for  our  sake,  the  slothfulness  and  inef- 
ficiency of  the  church,  the  hard-heartedness  and  obsti- 
nacy of  the  world.  The  fact  is,  he  was  so  kind  in  hia 
feelings,  so  sincere  in  his  motive  and  manner,  so  obvious- 
ly intent  upon  doing  his  great  work  and  his  whole  work 
and  doing  it  well,  that  he  could  say  any  thing  to  his 
people,  and  they  would  love  him  the  more  for  saying  it. 
They  respected  him  for  his  reproof,  it  was  so  honest- 
hearted.  He  seemed  to  be  so  much  absorbed  in  the 
subject  of  his  discourse,  and  to  place  it  so  completely 
before  himself,  that  all  complaints  against  him,  must  first 
pass  through  the  truths  which  he  declared.  He  appeared 
to  be  lost  in  his  theme,  and  neither  to  know  nor  care 
whether  it  would  be  grateful  to  his  bearers.  Few  men 
would  dare  to  utter  some  of  the  words  which  he  spoke, 
yet  he  was  safe  in  uttering  them,  for  he  was  intrenched 
in  the  good  will  of  all  who  heard  him. 

Another  characteristic  of  Mr.  Homer's  unpublished 
discourses  is  individuality.  He  wrote  as  an  individual, 
as  himself  He  wrote  for  individuals,  for  his  own  hear- 
ers, and  not  for  his  countrymen  in  general.  One  of  his 
favorite  mottos  for  preaching  was  the  quaint  stanza  of 
John  Bunyan  : 

**  Thine  only  way, 
Before  them  all,  is  to  say  out  thy  say 
In  thine  own  native  language,  which,  no  man 
Now  useth,  nor  with,  ease  dissemble  can." 

He  did  not  own  a  book  of  texts  which  might  guide 
him  to  the  choice  of  a  subject.  The  Bible  was  a  suffi- 
cient text-book,  and  the  wants  of  his  people  suggested 
more  themes  than  he  found  time  to  discuss.  He  never 
could  have  learned  to  use  Simeon's  Skeletons,  nor  would 


MEMOIR.  IIS 

Sturtevant's  plan  for  filling  out  those  skeletons,  have  been 
any  thing  to  his  mind  but  confusion  worse  confounded. 
The  main  power  of  his  unpublished  sermons  lay  in  the 
fact  that  they  were  outflowings  from  his  own  mind  and 
heart.  They  abound  with  passages  that  would  arrest  the 
attention  of  every  hearer,  not  so  much  because  they  were 
brilliant  as  because  they  were  natural,  and  nature,  wher- 
ever and  whatever  it  be,  will  command  the  sympathies  of 
men  ;  not  so  much  because  they  contained  new  truths,  as 
because  they  were  shaped  in  a  new  way,  and  the  way 
was  appropriate  not  to  ministers  in  general  but  to  Mr. 
Homer,  not  to  all  people  but  to  the  people  at  South  Ber- 
wick, not  on  all  occasions  but  on  the  very  Sabbath,  and 
that  part  of  the  Sabbath  when  the  sermon  was  preached. 

In  illustrating  the  idea  that  spiritual  wakefulness  does 
not  consist  in  dreaming  about  realities,  he  writes  in  one 
of  his  sermons,  "  Upon  my  own  mind,  overworked  with 
study,  or  overburdened  with  care,  the  night  has  some- 
times stolen  in  the  full  tide  of  my  excited  action,  and 
there  is  not  one  of  the  duties  of  my  pastoral  vocation  that 
I  have  not  performed  in  my  sleep.  But  I  never  value 
these  mental  exercises,  for  then  I  am  not  awake.  The 
sleep  may  be  diseased  and  uneasy,  it  may  give  no  rest  to 
the  tossing  spirit,  but  it  is  sleep  still." 

In  the  same  discourse,  he  says,  **  Neither  does  spiritual 
wakefulness  consist  in  a  momentary  starting  up  from 
sleep.  The  slothful  man  often  has  these  temporary  starts, 
and  through  his  half-closed  eyelids,  he  looks  out  of  the 
window  at  the  thorns  and  the  nettles,  and  the  broken 
down  wall.  But  he  begs  for  a  little  more  sleep  and  a 
little  more  slumber,  a  little  more  folding  of  the  hands  to 
sleep,  and  before  his  words  are  uttered,  he  has  again  sunk 
down  in  unconscious  stupor.  O,  how  often  have  I  watch- 
ed the  emotions  that  struggle  on  the  face  of  some  habitual 
sleeper  in  church  !  Conscience  sits  there  on  his  forehead 
10* 


114  MEMOIR. 

to  raise  the  falling  lid,  and  the  lip  quivers  with  many  a 
wakeful  purpose  ;  but  the  eye  is  vacant  instead  of  being 
fixed  vi'ith  a  becoming  resolution,  and  the  good  man, 
amid  a  thousand  fears  and  doubts  and  wishes  and  plans  to 
keep  awake,  is  again  overcome." 

At  the  close  of  a  sermon  on  the  Eternity  of  God,  he 
says,  *'  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  sin  against  such  a  being; 
against  a  being  who  stands  still  while  we  are  moving  on, 
with  whom  our  ages  of  forgetfulness  are  all  one  moment, 
and  in  whose  mind  our  sins,  though  committed  long  and 
long  ago,  are  as  fresh  and  as  clear  as  the  present.  My 
aged  friend,  there  is  a  certain  sin  which  you  committed 
in  early  youth.  Its  remorseful  pangs  are  now  all  obliter- 
ated. Its  very  features  are  fading,  fast  fading  from  view. 
Idly  you  imagine  that  by  the  day  of  your  death,  or  a  few 
ages  of  eternity  onward,  it  will  be  all  gone.  But  no ! 
with  the  great  I  AM  there  can  be  no  forgetfulness  ;  no 
ocean  of  time  sweeps  over  him  its  oblivious  current ;  your 
sin  is  safe,  safe  in  a  mind  that  cannot  grow  old.  My 
young  friend,  you  have  been  sinning  to-day.  God  saw 
you,  you  know  he  did.  This  morning  you  disobeyed  your 
mother,  this  forenoon  you  have  been  trifling  in  the  house 
of  God,  this  noon  you  are  going  into  the  Sabbath  school 
with  no  love  for  the  Bible  ;  you  will  go  home  to  seek  the 
idle  story  rather  than  the  book  that  tells  about  Jehovah, 
and  to-night, — mark  my  words  and  prove  me  if  they  are 
not  true, — to-night,  when  you  lie  down  to  rest,  it  shall  be 
written  against  you  in  your  own  conscience,  that  you  are 
a  Sabbath-breaker.  Yet  to-morrow  you  will  forget  it  all, 
and  you  think  because  you  have  forgotten  it,  it  will  be  all 
over.  But  ah  !  there  is  no  to-morrow  with  the  God  who 
looks  down  upon  your  sin.  To-morrow,  and  next  week, 
and  next  year,  and  next  century,  and  on  and  on  into 
eternity,  the  great  I  AM  is ;  and  he  looks  down  forever 


MEMOIR.  115 

with  the  same  fixed  gaze  upon  the  sin  you  commit  to-day. 
And  when  it  has  become  far,  far  distant  from  your  own 
eye,  if  the  film  of  eternal  ages  could  gather  over  it,  it  is 
always  just  as  close  and  present  to  his  searching  gaze. 
My  friends,  how  sad  to  think  that  every  sin  becomes 
eternal  from  the  eternity  of  that  being  who  sees  it ;  and 
when  we  sin  one  moment,  we  do  that  which  God  must 
abhor  forever  and  ever.  But  still  more  sad,  when  in) 
another  world  we  shall  ourselves  be  armed  with  a  like 
power  ;  when  to  our  own  consciences,  in  their  resurrec- 
tion day,  the  past  must  seem  like  the  present ;  when  sins 
between  which  there  was  an  interval  of  weeks  and 
months  and  years  shall  all  rise  up  together,  an  exceeding 
great  army ;  when  eternity  shall  be  a  mirror  in  which  the 
great  past  is  ever  reflected  like  an  eternal  Now.  And  in 
that  work  of  retribution,  unless  we  have  secured  an  ad- 
vocate and  a  refuge,  the  great  I  AM  will  stand  over  us 
and  say, — not  for  thoscy  but  for  thescy  not  you  werCj  but 
you  are,  you  are  my  enemies." 

So  far  was  Mr.  Homer  from  adopting  the  general  style 
of  address  which  may  apply  to  everybody  or  anybody  or 
nobody  in  the  congregation,  a  style  which  is  intended  to 
please  that  class  of  hearers  who  are  ever  appropriating  to 
their  neighbors,  what  ought  to  have  been  designed  for 
themselves,  he  particularized  his  hearers  and  addressed 
his  reproofs  to  **  the  sinners  in  this  house,"  "  in  these 
pews,"  "  to  you  who  are  slighting  your  early  baptism," 
"  to  you  who  are  violating  your  sacramental  vow,"  to 
those  listless  hearers,  "  from  whose  iron  visages  the  words 
bound  back  into  the  preacher's  face,"  and  in  a  single  in- 
stance he  addresses  a  rebuke  to  "  one  or  two  persons 
among  those  who  worship  in  this  temple,"  and  who  would 
neither  misapprehend  nor  dislike  his  open-hearted  fidelity. 
In  his  delivery  he  used  the   "indicative  gesture,"  and  the 


116  MEMOIR. 

spirit  of  his  language  was,  "Thou  art  the  man."  He 
once  wrote  a  sermon  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  benefiting  a 
single  individual.  If  he  had  not  possessed  and  been 
known  to  possess  a  harmless  temper,  this  individualizing 
process  would  have  become  an  offensive  personality.  But 
a  good  reputation,  like  the  shield  of  faith,  will  ward  off 
the  fiery  darts  of  many  who  obey  not  the  truth. 

Nearly  allied  to  the  individuality  of  his  discourses  is 
their  simplicity.  There  may  be  a  want  of  this  excellence 
in  his  choice  of  words,  and  he  was  too  fond  of  the  Greek 
inversion  in  his  arrangement  of  them.  But  in  the  spirit 
and  genius  of  his  discourses,  there  is  much  of  that  intan- 
gible quality  which  so  many  writers  have  vainly  attempted 
to  describe.  He  gives  frequent  specimens  of  what  Mar- 
montel  calls,  *'  that  sort  of  amiable  ingenuousness  or  un- 
disguised openness  which  seems  to  give  us  some  degree 
of  superiority  over  the  person  who  shows  it ;  a  certain 
infantine  simplicity  which  we  love  in  our  hearts,  but 
which  displays  some  features  of  the  character  that  we 
think  we  should  have  wit  enough  to  hide ;  and  which 
therefore  always  leads  us  to  smile  at  the  person  who  dis- 
covers this  quality."  The  secret  of  the  pleasure  we  de- 
rive from  such  a  character  is  found  in  its  freedom  from 
artifice.  We  are  interested  in  the  friend  or  companion 
who  is  not  perpetually  asking  himself,  how  will  my  words 
sound  to  others  1  what  will  the  people  think  of  this  deed 
or  that  1  but  who  is  willing  to  act  out  his  own  impulses 
under  the  appropriate  operation  of  some  truth  present  to 
his  mind.  This  sort  of  simplicity  is  manifested  in  ways 
innumerable.  When  one  utters  a  trite  idea  without  the 
least  suspicion  that  it  will  be  considered  too  unimportant 
to  be  expressed  in  such  sober  language,  as  when  Izaak 
Walton  says  that  Sir  Henry  Wotton  "retired  into  his 
study,  and  there  made  many  of  his  papers,  that  had  passed 
his  pen  both  in  the  days  of  his  youth  and  in  the  busy  part 


MEMOIft.'  14QI 

of  his  life,  useless  by  a  fire  made  there  to  that  purpose ; " 
when  one  makes  a  statement  which  will  be  received  with 
incredulity  or  with  ridicule,  and  makes  it  without  the 
least  apparent  apprehension  that  it  will  be  misunderstood 
or  abused,  as  when  the  honest  Izaak  says  of  the  same  Sir 
Henry,  who  was  suspected  of  a  plagiarism,  that  "  reason 
mixed  with  charity  should  persuade  us  to  believe  that  Sir 
Henry's  mind  was  so  fixed  on  that  part  of  the  communion 
of  saints  which  is  above,  that  a  holy  lethargy  did  surprise 
his  memory,"  or  when  one  exposes  his  own  secret  fears 
and  failings  with  the  guilelessness  of  a  man  who  does  not 
dream  that  others  are  watching  his  frailties,  in  these,  and 
numberless  other  modes  we  are  touched  and  won  upon 
by  that  simplicity  which  has  been  called  the  "  nameless 
grace  of  an  imperfect  man."  Fn  his  unpublished  sermons 
Mr.  Homer  has  communicated  many  thoughts  which  his 
brethren  in  the  ministry  might  thank  him  for  expressing, 
and  still  excuse  themselves  from  uttering  the  same.  We 
often  love  to  have  things  said,  but  not  exactly  to  say  them 
ourselves.  He  expressed  his  honest  feelings  in  an  honest 
way.  Critics  may  smile  at  his  childlike  frankness,  but 
men  and  women  and  children  will  sympathize  with  such 
a  minister  far  more  than  with  one  who  measures  his  sen- 
tences, and  never  speaks  without  calculating  the  results 
of  each  syllable.  However  correct  the  words  may  be,  if 
they  seem  to  have  come  from  the  public  mint,  and  not  to 
be  part  and  parcel  of  the  speaker  himself,  they  are  stale 
and  powerless.  They  are  coined  words,  but  human 
nature  cries  out  for  words  that  flow  forth  spontaneously. 
They  are  stamped  words,  but  it  is  the  living  and  breathing 
phrase  that  reaches  the  hidden  places  of  the  heart.  They 
are  indeed  safe  words,  producing  no  kind  of  evil  because 
they  produce  no  kind  of  effect.  It  will  always  be  true  of 
them,  that  they  are  better  fitted  for  posterity  than  for  any 
living  generation.     He  who  is  *'  coldly  correct  and  criti- 


118  MEMOIR. 

cally  dull  "   may  satisfy  a  reviewer,   but   never  melts  the 
spirit  of  a  man. 

Taking  a  great  interest  in  the  fruits  of  his  mental  toil, 
Mr.  Homer  was  not  ashamed  to  confess  that,  on  his  own 
account  as  well  as  for  their  good,  he  desired  the  regular 
attendance  of  his  people  at  church.  He  not  only  taught 
them  that  they  might  become  better,  but  he  owned  that 
he  should  feel  better,  if  they  were  constant  in  their  visits 
to  the  sanctuary.  "  I  entreat  you,"  he  says,  "  that  you 
be  not  over  scrupulous  about  the  height  of  the  thermom- 
eter, or  the  aspect  of  the  clouds  on  a  Sabbath  morning, 
that  you  doom  not  the  preacher  to  come  in  from  a  lower- 
ing and  desolate  sky  to  the  more  desolate  scenes  of  an 
empty  church.  I  mean  not  to  intrude  upon  the  delicacies 
of  life,  and  I  know  there  are  many  constitutions  that  will 
not  bear  an  exposure  to  the  inclemency  of  the  storm.  I 
leave  every  man's  conscience  to  be  his  bodily  physician. 
But  I  beg  of  you  to  be  consistent  patients  ;  for  that  admi- 
rable doctor  is  never  more  stupid  than  under  the  sound  of 
a  church-going  bell,  and  if  the  fireside  of  home  looks 
inviting,  and  the  storm  beats  cheerlessly  against  the 
window,  above  all  if  the  heart  from  within  does  not  cry 
out  for  the  courts  of  the  Lord,  it  is  easy,  too  easy  to  get 
an  invalid's  exemption  from  our  unscientific  guide,  or  to 
conjure  up  some  lion,  in  the  shape  of  a  formidable  snow- 
drift, or  a  pelting  rain,  or  a  smoky  house,  no  one  of  which 
would  excuse  us  to  a  client,  or  a  customer,  but  any  one 
of  them  we  can  put  off  on  our  minister  or  our  God. 
Still  politeness  forbids  me  to  enter  the  private  circle  and 
say  to  this  or  that  person,  you  ought  to  be  at  church  ;  as 
a  gentleman  I  leave  you  to  judge  for  yourselves.  But  as 
a  minister,  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  beg  of  you  to  remem- 
ber the  poor  man  whose  profession  obliges  him  to  go  to 
church  in  all  weathers,  whose  taste  will  not  permit  him 
to  reward  the  faithful  few  with  an  old  sermon,  or  a  desul- 


MEMOIR.  ^IM 

tory  talk  inspired  by  empty  pews,  whose  sense  of  justice 
obliges  him  to  bring  out  the  hard  earnings  of  a  week's 
toil,  when  one  and  another  and  another  for  whom  that 
sermon  was  written  are  not  in  their  seats.  I  say,  I  wish 
they  would  think  of  him  from  the  good  easy  chair,  and 
by  the  blazing  hearth  of  home,  and  cast  over  him  the 
wing  of  their  sympathy  if  they  cannot  give  him  the  light 
of  their  faces." 

In  the  same  discourse  he  says,  "  You  should  listen  to 
the  preaching  of  the  gospel  with  a  careful  regard  to  the 
feelings  of  your  minister.  Remember  that  he  is  a  man  ; 
by  education,  by  profession,  it  may  be  by  temperament  a 
sensitive  man.  He  has  eyes  that  can  see.  He  has  ears 
that  can  hear.  He  has  a  heart  that  can  feel.  Let  the 
delicate  and  honorable  deference  with  which  you  meet 
him  in  the  street,  or  welcome  him  to  your  dwellings,  not 
be  entirely  laid  aside,  when  he  stands  before  you  as  the 
messenger  of  God.  There  are  many  persons  who  act  as 
if  they  supposed  that  the  eminence  of  the  pulpit  raised 
their  minister  above  the  level  of  human  feelings,  that  it 
was  round  about  him  like  an  impregnable  fortress,  and 
every  mark  of  contempt  or  disrespect  or  inattention  from 
the  audience  falls  as  powerless  as  if  he  were  a  senseless 
machine.  If  he  visit  them  at  their  homes,  they  would  be 
ashamed  to  treat  him  with  such  coldness  and  scorn,  and 
it  would  be  deemed  the  lowest  indecency  to  look  out  of 
the  window,  or  to  read  a  newspaper,  or  to  drop  asleep  in 
the  chair  while  he  was  talking  with  them  ;  but  when  he 
stands  before  them  in  the  pulpit,  they  borrow  a  license 
from  his  remoteness  and  his  elevation,  as  well  as  from 
the  multitude  who  share  the  responsibility  of  their  polite- 
ness, and  they  never  dream  that  it  is  rude  and  ungentle- 
manly,  to  be  gazing  around  the  house,  or  turning  over  a 
hymn-book,  or  whispering  some  pleasantry  to  a  neighbor, 


120  MEMOIR. 

or  fixing  themselves  in  a  good  position  for  sleep.  The 
truth  is,  my  friends,  the  minister  is  and  ought  to  be  more 
keenly  sensitive  to  these  marks  of  public  disrespect  than 
he  would  be  to  private  and  personal  contempt.  An  insult 
is  offered  to  the  fruits  of  his  own  mental  toil.  A  contempt 
is  thrown  upon  his  high  office  as  a  preacher.  The  sol- 
emnly dedicated  house  of  worship  seems,  in  their  view, 
to  have  a  claim  for  decorum  inferior  to  the  highway  or 
the  parlor.  More  than  all,  that  august  Being  in  whose 
name  he  speaks,  before  whom  angels  cast  their  crowns  in 
ceaseless  adoration,  Jehovah  himself  is  repulsed  by  the 
coldness  and  stupidity  of  earthly  worshippers.  And  I 
wonder  how  a  man  can  preach,  when  such  reflections  are 
pressed  upon  him  with  overwhelming  power  from  a  care- 
less or  trifling  or  sleeping  audience. 

"  Let  me  urge  you  then,  as  one  gratification  and 
encouragement  to  the  preacher,  to  hear  with  the  attitude 
and  appearance  of  attention.  I  think  it  cannot  be  gene- 
rally known  how  distinct  and  perfect  is  the  observation 
of  the  audience  from  the  pulpit.  The  hearer  sees  that 
the  eyes  of  the  minister  are  sometimes  directed  towards 
himself,  but  he  never  imagines  that  they  distinguish  him 
from  the  mass  of  worshippers.  The  fact  is,  the  preacher 
from  his  observatory  can  discover  every  thing.  There  is 
not  a  corner  of  the  church  which  his  eye  does  not  pene- 
trate. He  traces  the  vacant  seats  in  each  pew  and  knows 
who  is  absent.  He  observes  the  position  of  every  hearer 
in  the  house.  He  hears  every  remote  whisper.  He  sees 
every  mark  of  frivolity.  He  feels  every  symptom  of 
gaping  listlessness.  He  could  go  round  from  family  to 
family  during  the  week,  and  detail  with  wonderful  accu- 
racy their  deportment  in  the  house  of  God,  their  interest 
in  the  Sabbath  services,  what  they  had  gained  and  what 
they  had  lost  of  the  sermon.  Were  it  proper  to  unfold 
the  distinct  recollection  of  my  own  recent  ministrations 


MEMOIR.  121 

among  yourselves,  you  would  be  surprised  to  find  such 
minute  circumstances  in  your  past  history  brought  back 
to  you  with  the  accuracy  of  present  consciousness.  I 
could  speak  of  some  who  came  regularly  every  morning 
and  staid  away  regularly  every  afternoon  ;  little  thinking 
how  quickly  the  vacant  seat  would  be  noticed,  and  how 
keenly  the  neglect  would  be  felt  by  the  stranger.  I  could 
speak  of  others,  to  whom  I  looked  in  vain,  Sabbath  after 
Sabbath,  and  sentence  after  sentence,  for  one  returning 
glance,  to  show  that  they  saw  and  heard  me.  I  could  go 
to  others  and  remind  them  that  they  had  listened  to  par- 
ticular parts  of  each  sermon,  and  followed  me  with  only  a 
fitful  interest.  And  I  could  speak  with  gratitude  of  the 
many  eyes,  that  were  fixed  upon  me  with  a  uniform  atten- 
tion, and  to  which  I  turned  from  the  discouraging  aspect 
of  the  dull  and  the  listless,  and  found  unfailing  relief  and 
refreshment.  I  thought  then,  if  I  could  only  have  a  con- 
gregation filled  with  such  hearers,  with  not  one  vacant 
look,  with  every  form  erect,  with  every  eye  fixed  upon  the 
•preacher,  with  every  feature  beaming  with  interest  and 
excitement,  with  the  earnest  and  respectful  and  constant 
attention  which  the  truth  of  God,  in  whatever  form  it  be 
ministered,  ought  to  receive;  if  I  could  stand  up  Sabbath 
after  Sabbath,  before  such  an  audience,  what  a  soul- 
stirring  animation  would  be  kindled  in  my  speech,  what  a 
delightful  glow  would  follow  me  home  from  my  Sabbath 
labors,  and  during  the  weekly  preparations  of  the  study, 
what  life  and  force  would  be  breathed  Into  me  from  the 
consciousness  that  I  wrote  for  all  those  attentive  eyes,  and 
thought  for  all  those  excited  minds,  and  felt  for  all  those 
beating  hearts. 

"  I   am  sensible  that  many  persons  have  acquired   a 

habit  of  listening   without  this  attitude  of  attention,  and 

we   should  do  wrong  to  judge   merely  from  the  outward 

appearance.     I  have  known  individuals  who  could  look 

11 


i 


122  MEMOIR. 

up  and  down  and  everywhere  except  at  the  preacher,  and 
seem  to  be  intent  upon  every  thing  rather  than  the  sermon, 
who  were  at  the  same  time  pondering  and  treasuring 
every  word  that  was  uttered.  But  for  the  sake  of  exam- 
ple, and  to  secure  that  sympathy  of  interest  which  so 
quickly  diffuses  itself  through  a  whole  congregation,  1 
would  urge  it  upon  all,  to  avoid  that  nervous  restlessness 
which  obliges  them  constantly  to  change  their  position  or  to 
vary  their  view,  and  would  request  them  to  keep  the  eye 
ever  on  the  pulpit.  That  fixed  attitude,  and  that  earnest 
gaze  shall  secure  their  own  reward. 

"There  is  one  other  thought  connected  with  this  sub- 
ject to  which  you  will  pardon  me  for  alluding.     You  are 
aware  that  there  is  now  extensively  prevalent  among  min- 
isters   of  the   gospel,    a  singular  paralysis   of  the   vocal 
organs,  which   has  driven  many   from   their  pulpits   and 
their  flocks.     The   disease  is  one  which  has  eluded  the 
researches  of  medical  science,  as  it  has  baffled  the  reach 
of  medical  skill.     But   among   the   many  theories  to  ac- 
count for  its  origin,  I  have  found  none  more  philosophical' 
or   more  consonant  with  my   own   experience,  than  that 
which   attributes  it  to  the  stupidity  and  inattention  of  an 
audience.     It   is   well  known  that  there  is  an  active  sym- 
pathy  between    the   mind   and   the   body,  and  what  more 
natural    than    that    a   depressed    and   embarrassed   spirit 
should  derange   an  organ  so  delicate  and  sensitive  as  the 
human   voice.     Those  of  you  who  are  at  all  accustomed 
to  public  speaking  can  testify  how  much  the  ease  of  your 
utterance  depends  upon  the  interest  of  your  audience.     If 
you  find  it  hard  to  make  yourself  understood,  or  the  force 
of  your  argument  falls  powerless  upon  stupid  hearers,  the 
utterance  at  once  becomes  difficult,  the  mouth  is  quickly 
parched   and   dry,   there  is  a  choking  sensation  about  the 
throat,  a  thousand  impediments  seem  to  check  the  flow  of 
language,  the   speaking  is   all   up-hill   work,  and  you  sit 


MEMOIR.  123 

down  with  the  vocal  organs  irritated  and  inflamed,  and 
an  exhaustion  of  your  whole  system  tenfold  greater,  than  if 
yoii  spoke  to  an  audience  so  full  of  sympathy  and  interest 
and  excitement  that  the  flow  was  easy  from  your  heart  to 
theirs.  For  myself,  I  confess,  so  great  has  sometimes 
been  the  physical  difliculty  with  which  I  have  preached 
to  a  trifling  or  listless  congregation,  that  I  have  been, 
ready  to  wish  that  in  the  pulpit  I  could  be  stripped  of 
every  sense  and  every  faculty  but  that  of  speech,  so  that 
there  might  not  come  in  through  my  eyes  and  my  ears  and 
my  wounded  sensibilities,  so  many  impediments  to  the 
easy  current  of  my  language." 

Another  characteristic  of  Mr.  Homer's  performances 
in  the  pulpit  was  unity.  He  always  endeavored  to  finish 
his  discourses  as  early  as  the  noon  of  Saturday,  and  he 
spent  the  afternoon  and  evening  of  that  day  in  the  selec- 
tion of  appropriate  hymns,  and  in  preparation  for  the  un- 
written exercises  of  the  pulpit.  "  One  thing,"  says  a 
writer  from  South  Berwick,  **  which  could  not  fail  to  at- 
tract the  notice  of  the  most  careless  hearer,  was  the  com- 
pleteness and  mutual  harmony  of  all  the  parts  of  Mr. 
Homer's  Sabbath  exercises.  The  prayer,  the  sermon,  the 
hymns,  were  nicely  adjusted  portions  of  one  well  con- 
structed whole.  His  hearers  did  not  leave  the  sanctuarjl 
with  minds  distracted  in  the  attempt  to  grasp  two  or  more 
grand  ideas,  suggested  by  different  parts  of  the  service ; 
but  the  one  great  truth  which  had  been  made  prominent 
in  the  discourse  was  so  often  repeated  in  the  other  ser- 
vices, as  to  engross  the  whole  attention.  While  the 
sermon  was  the  arrow  designed  to  reach  the  heart,  the 
remaining  exercises  did  but  sharpen  the  point  and  speed 
the  flight  of  that  missile.  He  never  lost  sight  of  the 
truth  or  doctrine  which  he  was  endeavoring  to  establish, 
and  rarely  suffered  himself  to  be  drawn  aside  into  any 


124  MEMOIR. 

episodes,  or  to  be  diverted  into  the  discussion  of  any  kin- 
dred Kut  collateral  topic.  The  ideas  suggested  by  the  text 
he  seemed  intent  on  reducing  to  the  smallest  possible  com- 
pass, and  deriving  from  them  the  one  great  impression  of 
his  discourse.  It  may  not  be  improper  to  state,  in  show- 
ing the  benefits  of  this  kind  of  preaching  and  the  skilful 
manner  in  which  he  conducted  it,  that  not  a  few  of  his 
hearers  yet  retain  in  memory  the  groundwork  and  detail 
of  many  of  his  sermons,  and  are  able  to  state  the  general 
position  which  was  advocated,  and  each  argument  by 
which  it  was  sustained,  in  its  order." 

Another  of  Mr.  Homer's  aims  in  the  pulpit  was  to  give 
a  variety  of  religious  instruction.  He  who  secures  unity 
in  every  single  discourse,  may  secure  the  greater  variety 
in  his  several  discourses.  "  There  are  some  persons,  '* 
he  said  to  his  people,  ''  who  dislike  preaching  on  the  doc- 
trines, and  others  who  cannot  bear  preaching  on  anything 
else.  As  a  minister  of  Jesus,  I  am  called  upon  rightly  to 
divide  the  truth,  and  I  cannot  please  any  one  of  these 
opposites  to  the  exclusion  of  all  the  rest.  It  is  selfish 
and  unreasonable  for  one  individual  to  set  himself  up  as 
the  standard  for  a  whole  congregation,  and  to  demand  a 
constant  succession  of  services  which  will  gratify  himself 
alone,  and  leave  many  as  hungry  as  himself  unfed.  Such 
an  aristocratic  and  arrogant  demand  would  be  frowned 
down  anywhere  else,  and  I  must  insist  upon  its  unrea- 
sonableness here.  I  beg  of  you,  therefore,  who  can  see 
no  manner  of  profit  in  metaphysical  refinements,  or  theo- 
logical speculation,  who  are  perpetually  crying  out  for 
sermons  on  the  Christian  virtues,  for  something  practical 
to  improve  the  life,  I  must  beg  of  you  not  to  nestle  in 
your  seats  and  put  down  your  heads  because  to-day  I 
strive  to  fortify  the  faith  of  the  church,  or  remove  the 
doubts  of  the  wavering  ;  for  next  Sabbath,  your  turn  shall 
come,  when,  so  help  me  God,  I  will  stir  up  your  con- 


MEMOIR.  12$ 

sciences,  and  probe  your  characters,  and  strive  to  make 
you  better  men  than  you  are.  And  I  beg  of  you,  if  such 
there  be,  who  are  suspicious  of  every  deviation  from  the 
old  standards,  and  who  would  like  no  more  variety  than 
depravity  and  election  to-day,  election  and  depravity  to- 
morrow, I  must  beg  of  you  to  lay  by  your  jealousies  and 
anxieties,  if  there  are  some  sermons  where  your  fondly 
cherished  formulas  are  not  even  mentioned.  To  the  Jew, 
I  hope  to  become  a  Jew,  yet  not  on  every  Sabbath ;  to  the 
Greek,  I  will  become  a  Greek,  yet  not  in  every  sermon ; 
to  each  man  dividing  his  portion  in  due  season,  if  by  any 
means  I  may  save  some." 

There  is  one  description  of  the  great  model  for  all 
preachers,  which  Mr.  Homer  often  read  with  delight,  and 
spoke  of  as  an  epitome  of  the  rules  by  which  he  meant 
to  be  guided  in  the  sacred  office.  '*  Our  Saviour,"  it  is 
said,  *'  did  not  address  one  passion  or  part  of  our  nature 
alone,  or  chiefly.  There  was  no  one  manner  of  address, 
and  we  feel  sure  as  we  read  that  there  was  no  one  tone. 
He  did  not  confine  himself  to  any  one  class  of  subjects. 
He  was  not  always  speaking  of  death,  nor  of  judgment, 
nor  of  eternity,  frequently  and  solemnly  as  he  spoke  of 
them.  He  was  not  always  speaking  of  the  state  of  the 
sinner,  nor  of  repentance  and  the  new  heart,  though  on 
these  subjects  too  he  delivered  his  solemn  message.  There 
was  a  varied  adaptation  in  his  discourses,  to  every  condi- 
tion of  mind  and  every  duty  of  life,  and  every  situation 
in  which  his  hearers  were  placed.  Neither  did  the 
preaching  of  our  Saviour  possess  exclusively  any  one 
moral  complexion.  It  was  not  terror  only,  nor  promise 
only;  it  was  not  exclusively  severity  nor  gentleness;  but 
it  was  each  one  of  them  in  its  place,  and  all  of  them 
always  subdued  to  the  tone  of  perfect  sobriety." 

The  general  spirit  of  Mr.  Homer's  unpublished  dis- 
courses may  be  inferred  from  the  following  part  of  the 
11* 


126  MEMOIR. 

sermon  which  he  delivered  at  the  commencement  of  hia 
pastoral  labors.     ' 

"  The  dignity  of  the  minister's  office  appears  in  the 
fact,  that  he  is  the  instrument  for  supplying  the  spiritual 
wants  of  all  classes  of  men.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  labor 
for  the  mind,  that  priceless  gem  which  God  himself  has 
created  and  adorned.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  stir  up 
thought,  to  arouse  interest,  to  gratify  taste.  It  is  a  great 
thing  to  reform  the  outward  man,  and  make  the  princi- 
ples of  gospel  love  prevail  in  his  conduct.  It  is  a  great 
thing  to  diffuse  the  leaven  of  peace  and  beauty  through 
the  whole  mass  of  society,  and  make  a  paradise  on  earth. 
But  oh,  the  soul,  the  soul !  how  it  transcends  in  value 
all  the  interests  of  earth,  and  compared  with  its  nature 
and  its  destiny  and  its  high  behests,  how  poor  are  all  the 
triumphs  of  intellect  and  taste,  how  weak  are  those  efforts 
to  adorn  the  outward,  while  the  inner  sanctuary  remains 
untouched.  The  soul  has  diseases,  and  they  must  be 
healed.  The  soul  has  longings,  and  they  must  be  grati- 
fied. The  soul  has  wanderings,  and  they  must  be  check- 
ed. The  soul  has  sorrows,  and  they  must  be  stayed. 
The  soul  may  die  forever,  and  it  must  be  clothed  in  the 
robes  of  eternal  life.  In  the  providence  of  God  which 
places  me  here  to-day,  while  I  would  not  be  unfaithful  to 
the  other  parts  of  my  calling,  I  desire  to  look  upon  every 
thing  as  inferior  and  subordinate,  except  the  ministering 
to  the  immortal  spirit.  In  all  the  variety  of  characters 
and  conditions  around  me,  I  feel  that  there  is  not  one  to 
whom  I  have  not  some  message,  and  for  whom  there  is 
not  in  the  gospel  I  preach  a  fit  and  full  supply.  Is  there 
a  Christian  among  my  people  who  pants  for  a  closer  walk 
with  God,  whose  soul  disdains  the  unsubstantial  vanities 
of  the  world,  who  cries  out  daily  with  ceaseless  cravings, 
'  O  that  I  knew   where  I  might  find  him! '   to  him  am  I 


MEMOIR.  127 

sent,  to  be  his  guide  and  shepherd,  to  minister  the  food 
of  God's  word,  to  brighten  and  animate  his  faith  and  hope 
for  the  future.  Brother,  we  will  commune  together  of 
the  love  of  Jesus,  and  the  interests  of  the  undying  soul, 
we  will  take  sweet  counsel  and  walk  to  the  house  of  God 
in  company,  till  our  Master  call  us  to  the  upper  room  of 
his  feast,  to  the  perfect  union  of  heaven.  Are  there  any 
among  this  church  who  have  left  their  first  love,  whose 
faith  stumbles,  whose  hope  has  become  dim,  and  the 
world  binds  them  as  with  a  magic  spell  to  its  deceitful 
charms.  Wanderers  of  the  flock,  I  would  call  you  back 
to  the  altar  of  your  baptism  and  your  vows  before  angels 
and  men,  and  li^ht  aorain  the  extinsruished  zeal,  sometimes 
by  the  solemn  denunciation  of  a  '  woe  upon  them  that  are 
at  ease  in  Zion,'  sometimes  in  the  winning  invitation  of 
the  faithful,  '  Come  with  us,  and  we  will  show  you  good.' 
Are  there  among  you  the  hard-hearted,  the  men  of  the 
world,  whom  I  shall  learn  to  honor  and  respect  and  love 
only  to  be  more  deeply  convinced  of  their  deplorable  na- 
kedness of  soul  ?  O  !  my  friends,  by  the  sacred  rights  of 
conscience,  by  the  precious  interests  of  the  church,  by 
the  vows  of  God,  which  must  curse  me  forever  if  I  prove 
recreant  to  my  calling,  I  dare  not  shun  to  declare  unto 
you  the  whole  counsel  of  God.  I  cannot  hide  or  extenu- 
ate your  nature  and  character  and  condition.  I  cannot 
soften  the  demands  of  God,  or  smooth  over  the  dreadful 
consequences  of  your  impenitence.  In  all  meekness  and 
humility,  in  all  tenderness  and  friendship,  yet  with  plain- 
ness and  with  strictness,  I  must  beseech  you,  in  Christ's 
stead,  by  the  value  you  put  upon  your  souls,  by  the  love 
you  bear  to  your  minister,  by  the  power  of  your  corrupt 
example,  by  the  mercies  of  God,  by  the  terrors  of  hell,  I 
must  beseech  you  to  come  out  from  the  world,  and  take 
your  stand  among  the  humble  disciples  of  the  Redeemer. 
Are  there  here   any  restless,  dissatisfied  spirits  to  whom 


128  MEMOIR. 

the  world  is  losing  its  charm,  in  whose  bosoms  there  is 
an  aching  void  which  the  old  delights  cannot  supply,  who 
long  to  be  numbered  among  the  followers  of  Jesus  ?  In- 
quirers of  the  way  to  Zion,  to  you,  to  you,  I  bring  glad 
tidings  of  great  joy.  Lo  !  Christ  has  died  for  your  sins, 
yea  and  has  risen  again,  as  if  to  proclaim  new  life  to  your 
long  dead  spirits.  O  ye  dry  bones  that  begin  to  shake, 
hear  the  word  of  the  Lord.  Come  forth  from  your  en- 
tombment. Thrust  aside  the  grave-clothes  of  sin. 
Arise,  and  live,  and  walk,  and  work,  and  it  shall  be  well 
with  you.  And  in  those  seasons  of  trial  and  sorrow  which 
nmst  bow  the  hearts  of  my  people,  whether  the  sadness 
of  a  general  calamity  brood  as  with  raven  wing  over  your 
dwellings,  or  one  after  another  you  come  up  to  the  house 
of  God,  with  tottering  footsteps  and  heads  bowed  down 
like  a  bulrush,  and  the  weeds  of  mourning  and  the  sigh- 
ings  of  solitude  to  remind  us  that  you  are  alone,  you  shall 
find  in  the  gospel  of  Jesus  a  warm  sympathy  to  lighten 
your  sorrow,  and  elevated  principles  to  confirm  your  faith. 
The  strain  of  comfort  which  it  breathes,  shall  be,  '  Come 
unto  me,  ye  that  are  weary  and  heavy  laden,'  and  the  pro- 
found lesson  it  teaches,  *  All  things  shall  work  together 
for  good  to  them  that  love  God.'  The  gospel  of  Jesus 
leads  in  life  to  that  which  is  above  life.  It  leads  beyond 
life  to  heaven." 

In  reviewing  Mr.  Homer's  sermons,  our  chief  regret  is 
that  he  wrote  them  so  rapidly.  He  exchanged  but  three 
times  after  his  ordination,  and  never  preached  extempore 
on  the  Sabbath.  He  was  compelled  therefore  to  write 
two  discourses  in  a  week,  in  some  instances  he  wrote 
more.  One  of  those  published  in  the  present  volume  was 
planned  and  finished  in  a  single  day.  But  a  single  writ- 
ten sermon  in  six  days  is  labor  enough  for  any  man. 
Wise  critics   have  recommended  that   a  minister  write  a 


MEMOIR.  129 

good  discourse  as  soon  as  he  can,  and  preach  it  when  it 
is  *'  about  finished,"  If  Saturday  noon  find  him  unpre- 
pared for  the  Sabbath,  let  him  furnish  his  people  with  the 
best  instruction  he  can  command,  either  by  an  exchange 
or  by  an  extemporaneous  effort.  That  good  and  finished 
sermon  will  benefit  his  own  character,  moral  as  well  as 
mental,  more  than  a  score  of  careless  and  hurried  homi- 
lies. It  will  give  him  more  authority  over  his  people,  se- 
cure for  them  a  juster  balance  of  theological  truth,  a 
higher  standard  of  religious  feeling.  It  is  by  a  thorough 
examination  of  some  one  doctrine,  and  by  an  accurate 
adjustment  of  its  collateral  topics,  that  the  minister  ad- 
vances and  causes  his  people  to  advance  every  month  in 
spiritual  power.  When  he  is  removed  by  death,  the  ser- 
mons which  he  has  elaborated  with  so  much  care  will  re- 
tain a  permanent  value,  and  he  will  preach  long  after  his 
voice  is  stilled.  The  editor  of  Massilon's  Lent  Sermons 
regards  it  as  a  prodigy  that  he  finished  a  discourse  in  so 
short  a  time  as  ten  or  twelve  days.  This  eminent  preacher 
sometimes  rewrote  a  single  sermon  fifteen  or  even  twenty 
times.  A  distinguished  scholar  in  our  own  land  rewrote 
the  most  useful  of  his  sermons  thirteen  or  fourteen  times, 
and  labored  in  connection  with  a  literary  friend  two  whole 
days  on  as  many  sentences.  A  living  divine,  who  has 
been  called  the  prince  of  our  pulpit  orators,  spent  a  fort- 
night on  a  single  paragraph  of  one  of  his  published  ser- 
mons, and  three  months  in  elaborating  another  discourse, 
which  has  already  accomplished  more  good  than  the  four 
thousand  sermons  which  were  written  by  another  of  our 
pastors,  at  the  rate  of  two  a  week.  On  the  blank  leaf  of 
one  of  Dr.  Griffin's  manuscripts  it  appeared  that  his  dis- 
course had  been  preached  ninety  times.  Thus  had  it  been 
touched  and  retouched,  reviewed  and  rewritten,  until,  so 
far  as  the  author's  power  availed,  it  was  perfected.  There 
is  danger  indeed  of  acquiring  a  morbid  appetency  for 


130  MEMOIR. 

perfection,  which  will  polish  away  all  positive  excellence, 
and  refine  into  nothing  every  natural  beauty.  We  have 
read  of  an  Italian  author  who  would  whet  and  whet  his 
knife  till  there  was  no  steel  left  to  make  an  edge.  "In- 
deed," says  Carlyle,  "  in  all  things,  writing  or  other, 
which  a  man  engages  in,  there  is  the  indispensablest 
beauty  in  knowing  how  to  gtt  done.  A  man  frets  himself 
to  no  purpose,  he  has  not  the  sleight  of  the  trade,  he  is 
not  a  craftsman  but  an  unfortunate  borer  and  bungler,  if 
he  know  not  when  to  have  done.  Perfection  is  unattain- 
able ;  no  carpenter  ever  made  a  mathematically  right 
angle,  in  the  world  ;  yet  all  carpenters  know  when  it  is 
right  enough,  and  do  not  botch  it  and  lose  their  wages  in 
making  it  too  right.  Too  much  pains-taking  speaks  dis- 
ease in  one's  mind  as  well  as  too  little.  The  adroit, 
sound  minded  man  will  endeavor  to  spend  upon  each 
business  approximately  what  of  pains  it  deserves;  and  with 
a  conscience  void  of  remorse  will  dismiss  it  then.  " 

But  Mr.  Homer  was  not  predisposed  to  this  sickliness 
of  taste.  If  he  had  concentrated  upon  seventeen  sermons 
the  energies  which  he  devoted  to  thirty-four,  he  would 
not  indeed  have  gratified  his  parish  with  so  frequent  min- 
istrations, but  would  have  raised,  still  higher  than  he  did, 
the  standard  of  a  sermon,  and  would  have  made  his  post- 
humous influence  more  extensive.  His  people  however 
were  idolatrously  attached  to  him,  and  were  intent  on 
hearing  him  every  Sabbath.  Therefore  he  became  unwil- 
ling to  relieve  himself  by  exchanges  with  his  brethren. 
He  moreover  loved  his  work,  and  chose  in  his  hearty  zeal 
to  compress  a  great  amount  of  it  into  a  brief  period. 
Though  he  was  technically  a  student,  and  had  not  de- 
signed to  pass  his  life  in  the  pastoral  relation,  he  began 
to  doubt  whether  he  could  ever  forego  the  pleasure  of 
writing  sermons.  The  more  he  wrote,  the  happier  he  be- 
came.    About  a  fortnight  before  his  last  sickness  he  said 


MEMUIR.  131 

in  a  letter,  "  Preaching  grows  upon  me.  It  never  tires 
nor  palls.  It  appears  to  be  the  most  glorious  of  all  pur- 
suits. If  my  health  is  spared,  and  God  seems  to  bless 
my  labors,  I  shall  feel  very  differently  about  leaving  the 
ministry  from  what  I  have  felt.  I  do  not  know  that  I 
shall  turn  off  from  the  literary  design  which  has  occupied 
my  thoughts  for  so  many  years.  Still  I  cannot  but  feel 
that  if  I  ever  do  leave  the  sacred  office,  for  any  other  on 
earth,  it  will  be  taking  a  long  stride  downward." 

It  deserves  to  be  added  in  apology  for  his  rapid  compo- 
sition, that  Mr.  Homer  had  been  gathering  the  fruits  of 
Christian  experience  for  nearly  fourteen  years,  and  had 
accumulated  the  materials  of  his  discourses  long  before 
he  wrote  them.  They  were  the  emanations  of  the  char- 
acter which  he  had  been  forming,  and  he  could  express 
with  ease  the  trains  of  thought  which  had  been  familiar 
to  him  for  years.  Whatever  he  did  was  done  with  ce- 
lerity ;  this  was  his  nature.  The  results  therefore  of  his 
past  religious  meditations  he  recorded  without  the  effort 
and  delay  which  ministers  often  require.  It  may  be  that 
after  he  had  gone  round  a  certain  circle  of  topics,  he 
would  have  chosen  to  spend  a  longer  time  on  every  new 
theme.  Every  scholar  has  a  certain  class  of  subjects 
upon  which  he  has  perhaps  unconsciously  expended  a  pe- 
culiar degree  of  care,  and  when  these  are  exhausted  he 
becomes  once  more  a  novice.  On  some  themes  old  men 
are  young  and  young  men  are  old.  We  are  apt  to  regard 
the  efforts  of  a  youthful  preacher  as  the  very  beginnings 
of  his  work,  as  mere  experiments  ;  but  they  are  often  the 
results  of  nearly  all  the  wisdom  which  he  will  have  ac- 
quired in  maturer  life.  lie  m;iy  afterward  discuss  new 
topics  with  superior  power,  and  may  not,  but  on  some 
topics  his  first  .sermons  are  his  best.  Some  of  our  most 
useful  treatises,  in  theological  as  well  as  other  literature, 
have  been  the  productions  of  men  under  twenty-five  years 


132  MEMOIR. 

of  age.  There  is  a  rare  justness  in  the  following  criticism 
of  Mr.  Hazlitt :  '*  The  late  Mr.  Opie  remarked,  that  an 
artist  often  puts  his  best  thoughts  into  his  first  works. 
His  earliest  efforts  were  the  result  of  the  study  of  all  his 
former  life,  whereas  his  later  and  more  mature  perform- 
ances, though  perhaps  more  skilful  and  finished,  contained 
only  the  gleamings  of  his  after  observation  and  experi- 
ence." 

MR.    homer's    last    DAYS. 

On  the  Sabbath  after  his  ordination,  Mr.  Homer  said  to 
his  people,  "We  live  in  a  solemn  world.  We  cannot 
take  a  step  where  sad  realities  do  not  stare  us  in  the  face. 
We  cannot  form  a  new  tie  without  casting  our  thoughts 
forward  to  the  death-pang  that  must  sunder  it.  Amid  the 
mutual  rejoicings  of  our  recent  connection,  I  involunta- 
rily think  of  the  pall  and  the  shroud  and  the  bier  and  the 
grave ;  and  I  behold  one  and  another  and  another,  who 
now  look  up  into  my  face  and  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice, 
for  whose  cold  remains  I  shall  be  called  ere  long  to  dis- 
charge the  last  sad  offices;  and  God  only  knows  but  that 
this  people  may  bear  me  out  to  my  burial.  Sabbath  after 
Sabbath,  I  must  stand  up  here  as  a  dying  man  before  dy- 
ing men.  Yet,  blessed  be  God,  I  preach  a  gospel  which 
secures  the  great  antidote  to  these  ills,  which  enables  us 
to  look  above  and  beyond  them.  And  if  my  people  will 
resolve  this  day  to  put  themselves  under  my  spiritual  guar- 
dianship, and  heaven  will  bless  the  ministry  which  begins 
on  my  part  in  weakness  and  distrust,  we  may  hush  these 
dark  forebodings,  we  may  rest  assured  that  death  cannot 
weaken  the  tie  now  formed,  we  may  look  forward  to  a 
gladsome  reiinion  where  the  sombre  weeds  of  the  funeral 
shall  be  exchanged  for  the  white  vestments  of  the  mar- 
riage-feast, and  the  happy  language  of  the  pastor  shall  be, 
'Behold  I  and  the  people  thou  hast  given  me.'" 


MEMOIR.  133 

On  the  New  Year's  Sabbath  of  his  ministry,  he 
preached  from  the  text,  **  This  year  thou  shalt  die,"  the 
same  passage  with  which  so  many  divines,  and  among 
them  both  the  Edwardses,  have  commenced  the  pulpit 
services  of  the  last  year  of  their  life.  In  this  discourse,  he 
showed  the  probability  that  either  himself  or  some  of  his 
hearers  would  be  called  to  fulfil  the  prediction  of  the  text. 
"  The  night,  "  he  says,  '*  is  far  spent,  the  day  is  at  hand  ; 
some  of  us  can  almost  discern  the  first  red  streaks  of  the 
dawn.  We  are  hastening  on,  we  are  hastening  on  to  the 
brightness  of  an  eternal  day.  '  Let  us  therefore  cast  off 
the  works  of  darkness,  and  let  us  put  on  the  armor  of 
light.'  " 

It  is  not  to  be  understood  that  Mr.  Homer  had  a  pre- 
sentiment of  his  early  death.  He  had  not.  He  was  not 
given  to  such  presentiments.  Nor  had  his  friends  been 
fearful  of  such  a  calamity.  They  had  not  thought  of  him 
in  such  associations,  and  even  now  they  cannot  recall  the 
freshness  of  his  countenance  and  the  elasticity  of  his 
manners,  without  feeling  that  after  all  they  have  been  only 
dreaming  of  his  death,  and  he  is  soon  to  appear  again 
with  some  bright  saying  or  with  some  new  hope.  It  had 
not  even  occurred  to  their  thoughts  that  the  star  would 
sink  away  into  nothing,  just  as  men  were  beginning  to 
turn  their  glasses  to  it  and  examine  it. 

When  a  Christian  has  toiled  faithfully  and  successfully 
through  a  long  life,  he  lies  down  upon  the  bed  of  death 
as  the  bed  of  rest.  He  has  finished  the  work  which  was 
given  him  to  do,  and  if  by  reason  of  strength  his  life 
should  be  further  prolonged,  yet  would  his  strength  be 
labor  and  sorrow.  He  chooses  to  leave  the  world,  that 
he  may  escape  the  weariness  of  a  second  childhood,  and 
may  commune  again  with  the  friends  of  his  youth.  His 
age  is  well  rounded  off,  and  death  calls  for  his  gratitude 
rather  than  resignation.  But  the  subject  of  this  memoir 
12 


134  MEMom. 

had  not  been  satiated  nor  disgusted  with  life,  nof'was  he 
shut  up  to  death  as  his  only  avenue  to  enjoyment.  The 
hopes  and  the  promises  of  youth  were  clustering  around 
him,  he  had  just  begun  to  use  the  materials  which  he  had 
amassed  ;  to  die,  therefore,  as  soon  as  he  had  ended  the 
preliminaries  of  his  chosen  work,  was  not  so  much  to 
leave  the  world  as  to  be  torn  from  it.  He  had  but  re- 
cently entered  upon  that  state  which  is  but  a  figure  of  the 
union  between  Christ  and  the  church,  and  to  go  so  soon 
from  the  companionship  which  he  had  anticipated  so  long, 
was  something  to  be  submitted  to  rather  than  rejoiced  in* 
His  plans  were  definitely  formed  for  a  life  of  study,  he 
had  numbered  the  mines  of  intellectual  wealth  which  he 
was  to  explore,  and  he  had  every  inducement  to  cry,  '*  Cut 
me  not  down  in  the  midst  of  my  years,  deprive  me  not  of 
the  residue  of  my  days." 

His  unremitted  labors  during  his  last  year  at  Andover 
had  somewhat  enfeebled  his  frame,  and  should  have  in- 
duced him  to  defer  his  settlement  in  the  ministry  for  sev* 
eral  months.  Emerging  suddenly  from  the  seclusion  of 
a  student  into  the  duties  of  active  life,  he  was  more  exci- 
ted than  he  would  have  been  if  the  transition  had  been 
more  gradual,  or  if  he  had  previously  disciplined  himself, 
as  every  clergyman  ought  to  do,  in  some  active  business. 
The  excitement  was  greater  than  he  could  sustain  without 
a  more  healthful  regimen  of  body  than  he  was  careful  to 
practice.  The  labors  of  an  earnest  preacher  and  an 
anxious  pastor  cannot  be  united  with  those  of  a  severe 
student,  without  a  previous  and  careful  preparation  of  the 
body  as  well  as  mind.  This  preparation  Mr.  Homer  did 
not  make,  and  here  was  "  the  beginning  of  the  end." 
He  felt  a  degree  of  interest  in  his  labors  which  his  physi- 
cal system  had  not  been  disciplined  to  endure.  He  visit- 
ed the  sick  chamber  with  literal  sickness  of  heart,  and 
when  called  to  attend  a  funeral,  he  felt  as  one  personally 


MEMOIR.  135 

bereaved.  On  the  Sabbath  morning  he  would  rise  before 
the  sun  and  look  out  of  his  study-window,  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  a  clear  sky.  There  were  only  six  Sabbaths  of  his 
ministry  on  which  he  was  favored  with  such  a  prospect. 
To  him  they  were  days  of  delight ;  but  the  hail  and  the 
sleet  and  the  snow  sent  a  chill  into  his  spirit.  "  Again 
and  again  have  I  written  a  sermon,"  he  says,  "  for  Chris- 
tians ;  and  many  of  them  were  prevented  by  the  weather 
from  hearing  it.  Then  I  have  written  for  the  impenitent, 
and  those  for  whom  I  particularly  designed  my  discourses 
did  not  come  through  the  snow-banks  to  hear  me.  Dur- 
ing my  wedding  journey,  at  the  time  of  my  ordination, 
and  through  my  whole  ministry  thus  far,  I  have  been  per- 
secuted by  a  storm."  He  was  desirous  of  seeing  an  im- 
mediate influence  from  every  sermon,  and  was  grieved  if 
he  did  not  see  it.  Time  would  have  allayed  the  intensity 
of  this  desire,  and  sheathed  the  keen  edge  of  the  sympa- 
thetic nerve.  But  he  died  before  the  time.  The  truths 
which  he  uttered  from  the  pulpit  so  absorbed  his  attention, 
that  they  often  awaked  him  by  night.  Sometimes  he 
would  forget  even  to  eat,  until  the  studies  of  the  day 
were  closed,  and  in  the  evening  would  take  that  refresh* 
ment  which  he  could  not  live  without,  but  which  he  ought 
to  have  taken  at  an  earlier  hour.  He  had  been  crowding 
the  winter  with  disproportioned  labors,  and  was  hoping  to 
pass  the  more  genial  months  of  spring  in  visiting  his  pa- 
rishioners and  journeying  among  his  friends.  He  did  not 
dream  that  when  the  trees  were  blossoming  and  the  time 
of  the  singing  of  birds  had  come,  he  should  be  walking 
in  the  paradise  of  God. 

Sad,  sad  is  the  reflection,  that  he  did  not  listen  to  the 
remonstrances  of  his  friends,  and  endeavor  to  allay  the 
zeal  that  was  consuming  him.  Hitherto  his  books  had 
been  his  only  care,  and  that  care  was  a  pleasure,  and 
every  thing  that  interfered  with  their  claims  had  been 


136  MEMOIR. 

done  for  him  by  others  ;  now  he  was  called  to  do  every 
thing  for  himself  But  yesterday  he  was  a  pupil  ;  all  at 
once  he  had  become  a  teacher,  and  was  invested  with  the 
most  responsible  office  on  earth.  His  responsibility  was 
so  new  to  him  that  it  imparted  a  factitious  strength  to  his 
system,  and  he  looked  upon  the  admonitions  of  his 
friends  as  needless.  •'  Have  no  anxiety  for  me,"  he  often 
said,  "  for  I  am  never  sick.  Every  day  is  my  mind 
becoming  more  and  more  active,  and  my  labors  easier 
and  easier.  I  can  write  three  discourses  now  more  read- 
ily than  I  could  write  one  a  year  ago,  and  instead  of 
finding  it  difficult  to  preach,  I  find  it  difficult  to  refrain 
from  preaching.  Subjects  of  sermons,  and  plans  for 
writing  them,  and  thoughts  for  filling  out  those  plans 
are  thronging  in  upon  me,  till  I  know  not  what  to  do 
with  them  for  their  multitude."  He  did  not  perceive 
that  his  mind  was  loosing  itself  from  his  body,  and  was 
acting  with  the  rapidity  of  a  disencumbered  spirit.  He 
did  not  perceive  that  his  physical  state,  as  it  predisposed 
him  to  a  more  fervid  activity,  was  in  the  more  peculiar 
need  of  rest. 

But  during  the  first  week  of  March  he  began  to 
acknowledge  what  his  friends  had  long  seen,  his  increas- 
ing feebleness  of  body ;  and  he  promised  that  if  they 
would  allow  him  to  write  his  two  discourses  during  that 
week,  he  would  forthwith  relax  the  severity  of  his  labors. 
He  wrote  his  two  sermons,  performed  certain  parochial 
duties  which  would  at  any  time  have  oppressed  his  spirit, 
and  on  Sabbath  morning  was  again  frowned  upon  by 
the  storm  that  had  so  long  haunted  him  like  a  spectre, 
and  cast  a  gloom  over  his  labors  in  the  pulpit.  He  was 
so  feeble  that  he  ought  not  to  have  left  his  room  on  that 
inclement  morning,  but  he  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
omit  the  service.  He  preached  with  the  power  of  one 
who  was  uttering  his  last  words,  and  administered  the 


MEMOIR.  107 

sacramental  supper  with  unusual  solemnity.^  At  the 
close  of  his  exercises  in  the  afternoon,  he  visited  the  sick 
bed  of  a  literary  friend,  who  was  in  the  same  state  of 
delirium  in  which  himself  was  destined  soon  to  be.  He 
was  troubled  in  spirit  that  his  friend  was  apparently  so 
near  the  grave,  and  could  receive  no  consolation.  But 
the  wearied  pastor  had  done  all  that  he  could  do,  had 
whispered  in  the  ear  of  the  wandering  invalid,  **  Be  of 

*  He  closed  his  sermon  with  the  following  appeal  to  those  who 
were  soon  to  leave  the  sanctuary  while  the  church  were  gathering 
around  the  table  of  their  Lord;  an  appeal  containing  the  last 
words  which  he  ever  wrote  for  the  pulpit : 

"  Finally,  with  earnest  affection  we  invite  all  who  are  present  to 
tarry  with  us  and  view  the  scene.  We  deem  it  a  hard  thing  to 
bless  the  congregation,  that  they  may  turn  their  backs  upon  a  feast 
that  is  spread  for  them.  Rather  would  we  have  them  pause  and 
listen  to  its  fond  invitation.  Guilt-stricken  spirit,  it  has  a  voice 
for  thee :  *  Come  to  the  fountain.'  Man  of  the  world,  grasping 
after  earthly  treasures,  it  has  a  voice  for  thee  :  *  Come,  buy  wine 
and  milk  without  money  and  without  price.'  Bereaved  and  deso- 
late one,  it  has  a  voice  for  thee  :  *  Come  unto  me  thou  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  thee  rest.'  To  each  and  to  all  it  utters  its  mes 
sage, — *  Come.'  Above  all  to  the  baptized  children  of  this  church, 
the  members  of  Christ's  body,  if  not  the  communicants  at  his 
table,  does  it  address  its  urgent  entreaty.  And  as  it  warns  them 
not  to  think  lightly  of  the  table  where  parental  faith  is  partakin» 
of  the  emblems,  it  seems  to  utter  again  that  sweet  and  blessed 
assurance,  *  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me  and  forbid  them 
not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'  Oh  how  happy  should 
we  [be  if  the  close  of  our  service  to-day  and  each  sacramental 
Sabbath,  should  witness  no  separation  ;  if  there  were  none  here  to 
crave  a  blessing  as  they  hurry  away  frOm  the  communion  of  saints. 
But  happier  still,  if  the  invitation  might  be  welcomed  in  its 
deepest  purport,  if  a  fcAV  communions  more  might  gather  us  all 
close  to  the  table,  in  happy  waiting  for  the  time  when  our  Lord 
himseK  shall  come. 

*  Sweet,  awful  hour  !  the  only  sound 
One  gentle  footstep  gliding  round. 
Offering  by  turns  on  Jesus'  part 
^  The  cross  to  every  hand  and  heart. 

Refresh  us  Lord  to  hold  it  fast, 
.    And  when  thy  veil  is  drawn  at  last, 
Let  us  depart  where  shadows  cease, 
"With  words  of  blessing  and  of  peace.'  " 

12» 


138  MEMOIR. 

g"ood  cheer,"  and  bidding  farewell  to  the  hope  of  erer 
speaking  to  him  again,  he  returned  to  his  lodgings  dis- 
consolate and  spent.  Now  he  was  ready  to  relinquish 
his  toils  and  regain  his  lost  vigor.  But  he  had  deferred 
his  duty  too  long.  His  repose  came  too  late.  His  sick 
friend  recovered.  He  himself  was  sinking  into  the  same 
disease. 

On  the  evening  of  this  Sabbath,  the  seventh  of  March, 
he  was  visited  by  his  physician,  and  found  to  be  in  a  state 
of  great  debility  ;  his  brain  and  nervous  system  morbidly 
sensitive,  and  his  digestive  organs  much  deranged.  The 
sensibility  of  the  cerebro-spinal  system  was  soon  allayed, 
but  it  returned  after  several  days  and  was  accompanied 
with  despondency,  a  disinclination  to  converse,  and  a 
decided  impression  that  he  should  never  regain  his  health. 
For  three  or  four  days  he  retained  this  impression  in 
silence  and  in  sorrow.  He  struggled  with  it  alone,  but 
did  not  reveal  his  fears,  and  never  exhibited  the  slightest 
disposition  to  murmur.  On  the  evening  of  the  seven- 
teenth, he  called  his  physician  to  his  bed-side,  and  said 
that,  having  watched  carefully  his  feelings  and  the 
progress  of  his  disorder,  he  was  decidedly  convinced  that 
all  was  over  with  him  for  this  world.  "  I  am,"  he  said, 
*'  a  dying  man.  My  end  is  near.  My  mind,  at  times,  is 
bewildered  and  gone.  It  will  shortly  all  be  gone.  I  am 
incapable  of  connected  ideas,  or  continued  thought  upon 
any  subject  for  any  length  of  time.  I  shall  soon  be 
senseless.  I  feel  that  my  race  is  run.  I  am  hovering 
near  eternity.  My  dear  friend,  comfort,  oh  comfort  my 
wife,  when  I  am  gone.  Say  to  my  dear  church,  that  I 
have  endeavored  to  be  faithful  to  my  trust  and  to  their 
souls.  But  I  fear  that  I  have  come  short,  very  far  short 
of  my  duty.  Had  it  pleased  God,  I  should  have  been 
happy  to  live  an  humble  instrument  in  his  hand  of  win- 
ning souls  to  my  Saviour.     It  was  my  wish  to  have  done 


MEMOIR.  139 

some  good  in  life.  My  heavenly  Father  however  has 
decided  otherwise.  My  hopes,  my  plans,  my  expectations 
will  soon  be  closed  in  death."  He  was  asked  by  his 
physician,  •*  How  do  you  feel  in  prospect  of  a  change  of 
worlds."  He  replied,  "  My  mind  is  calm.  I  am  going 
to  the  bosom  of  my  God.  Through  Jesus  Christ,  my 
hope,  my  Saviour,  I  trust  that  I  shall  soon  be  one  of  the 
humble  worshippers  about  his  throne." 

On  the  morning  of  the  eighteenth,  the  evil  that  he  had 
feared  came  upon  him.  He  had  often  expressed  his 
dread  of  insanity.  He  trembled,  he  said,  lest  when  his 
judgment  had ,  lost  its  controlling  power,  he  should  say 
something  or  do  something  to  the  dishonor  of  religion. 
His  mind  now  became  like  a  broken  harp,  which  after 
the  strings  are  severed,  will  send  forth  at  times  a  sweet 
and  strange  music.  There  were  vibrations  of  his  pious 
feeling  which  were  not  stilled  even  by  insanity.  In  his 
mental  wanderings  he  went  over  and  over  the  scenes  of 
his  ministry,  and  lingered  with  peculiar  fondness  amid 
the  duties  of  his  last  Sabbath.  He  would  often  utter 
fragments  of  sermons  to  his  people,  would  offer  an 
earnest  prayer  as  if  he  were  still  leading  their  public  de- 
votions, and  was  several  times  engaged  in  distributing 
the  sacramental  emblems.  He  talked  of  a  speedy  revival 
of  religion  which  his  people  were  to  enjoy,  and  of  a 
protracted  meeting  in  which  all  his  hearers  were  to  be 
converted.  *'  But  I  am  going,"  he  says,  **  to  banquet 
with  the  angels."  "  It  seems  to  me,"  said  one  of  his 
watchers,  who  had  spent  the  night  in  listening  to  his  airy 
fancies,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  I  shall  never  look  upon  the 
world  as  I  have  looked  upon  it,  for  I  have  been  all  night 
long  in  company  with  the  angels  ;  "  so  frequent  had  been 
the  converse  of  the  dying  pastor  with  the  pure  spirits  of 
heaven.  There  were  lucid  intervals  during  his  delirium, 
but  they  were  intervals  of  a  moment.     He  would  begin 


140  MEMOIR. 

some  soothing  remark,  but  his  reason  would  vanish  ere 
he  had  closed  it.  A  few  fragments  of  sentences  are 
preserved,  which  like  the  fragments  of  a  Grecian  pillar 
indicate  the  chasteness  of  what  is  lost.  **  Oh  !  if  it  were 
not  for  that  sweet  assurance," — and  then  his  mind  darted 
back  behind  the  cloud.  "  By  the  preciousness  of  the 
love  of  Jesus," — and  then  he  lost  himself  amid  scenes  of 
terror.^  "  In  the  morning,"  he  said,  as  the  rays  of  the 
sun  beamed  upon  him,  "  in  the  morning  how  beautiful, 
and  at  night  how  horrible." — '*  I  pray  that  I  may  never 
murmur  against  the  will  of  God,  even  in  my  acutest 
pains." 

On  the  Saturday  preceding  his  death,  there  was  an 
interval  of  fifteen  minutes  in  which  he  seemed  entirely 
rational.  He  asked  his  wife  if  she  knew  him.  She 
answered,  "  Yes."  He  smiled  and  said  in  a  whisper,  for 
he  was  too  feeble  to  speak  aloud,  '*  I  thought  I  was  too 
near  eternity  for  even  you  to  know  me.  I  have  been 
thinking  how  much  happiness  we  have  enjoyed  by  our 
own  fireside,  and  it  seems  mysterious  that  we  should  be 
separated  so  soon.  I  have  felt  at  times,  that  after  all, 
God  would  spare  me  to  you ;  but  I  feel  now  that  he  will 
take  me  away."  She  said  to  him,  **I  hope  that  you  will 
still  recover."  **  No,"  he  replied,  "  I  shall  die ;  "  and 
then  pausing  in  apparent  meditation  upon  the  pardoning 
love  of  Jesus,  he  added,  *'  With  that  blessed  assurance  I 
am  going  home,  never  to  see  you  again  in  this  world." 
He  desired  to  say  more,  but  was  persuaded  to  desist,  and 
these  were  the  last  words  which  he  was  conscious  of 
uttering.  He  said  much  in  his  subsequent  delirium,  and 
just  before  he  lost  all  power  of  connected  speech,  he  sent 
a  request  to  his  church,  that  they  should  be  faithful  to 
the  souls  of  dying  men.  This  was  his  last  message. 
Here  was  his  ruling  passion. 

When  his  disease  had  reached  an  alarming  crisis,  his 


MEMOIR.  Ml 

medical  friend  remained  with  him  nearly  all  the  time  by 
day  and  night.  Four  consulting  physicians  were  called 
in  from  South  Berwick,  Dover,  Exeter,  and  Boston. 
Prayers  were  offered  for  him  by  several  private  circles 
convened  for  the  purpose  in  his  own  parish  and  his  native 
city,  at  the  daily  morning  prayer-meeting  at  Park-street 
church  in  Boston,  and  at  the  several  churches  of  South 
Berwick  on  the  Sabbath  preceding  his  death.  When  the 
preacher  in  his  own  pulpit  alluded  to  him,  there  was  an 
audible  movement  throughout  the  congregation,  and  the 
sobbings  of  his  people  evinced  the  intensity  of  their 
grief  **  Whoever,"  says  one  of  his  parishioners,  "  has 
seen  a  circle  of  mourners  assembled  at  the  bedside  of  a 
friend  about  to  take  his  final  departure,  may  have  an  idea 
of  the  sadness  and  sorrow  depicted  on  the  countenances 
of  the  people  as  they  sat  in  the  church  ;  for  all  felt  in 
very  truth  as  if  the  father  of  the  household  were  soon  to 
be  removed."  For  a  day  or  two  before  his  death,  groups 
of  men  were  seen  in  the  street  waiting  for  some  messen- 
ger who  might  bring  the  last  report  from  the  sick 
chamber.  A  gentleman  who  had  but  recently  fixed  his 
residence  in  the  village  says,  "  Business  was  in  a  degree 
suspended,  the  usual  courtesies  to  strangers  were  forgot- 
ten. Every  person  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  the  calamity 
that  threatened  the  parish.  Men,  women  and  children, 
from  all  parts  of  the  town  and  from  all  religious  societies 
indiscriminately,  came  in  almost  unbroken  succession  to 
inquire  concerning  the  dying  pastor.  Many  of  them 
would  linger  about  his  lodgings  after  they  had  learned  all 
that  could  be  learned,  and  several  seated  themselves  in 
different  parts  of  the  house  and  remained  for  hours  in 
one  posture  without  uttering  a  word.  There  was  an 
unusual  sobriety  of  deportment  among  the  students  of 
the  academy.  By  abandoning  their  play,  and  by  the 
stillness  with  which  they  left  the  school-room  for  their 


142  MEMOIR. 

homes  they  showed  that  their  thoughts  were  in  the  room 
of  the  dying.  These  and  similar  indications  were  such 
as  a  stranger  could  not  fail  to  notice."  ^ 

During  the  night  of  the  Sabbath,  Mr.  Homer's  disease 
assumed  a  more  alarming  form.  Congestion  of  the  brain 
had  passed  rapidly  into  injflammation  and  effusion.  The 
face  became  changed,  the  strength  failed,  and  the  powers 
of  life  were  becoming  feebler  and  feebler. 

On  Monday,  the  twenty-second  of  March,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  his  hour  had  come.  Several  of  his  parishioners 
were  gathered  around  his  bed,  uttering  no  words,  but  un- 
able to  repress  their  sighs.  His  father  was  standing  near, 
with  one  hand  raised  toward  heaven,  and  in  the  attitude 
of  a  man  looking  upward  for  the  strength  that  none  but 
Jehovah  can  impart.  About  noon,  those  who  had  been 
watching  for  every  change  of  symptom  in  the  wasted 
frame,  began  to  discover  signs  of  returning  consciousness. 
**  If  you  know  me,  press  my  hand,"  were  the  last  words 
spoken  to  him  by  one  who  longed  for  another  token  of 
recognition.  He  quickly  complied,  and  his  continued 
pressure  showed  that  his  love  was  stronger  than  death. 
Five  minutes  afterward  he  fell  asleep,  and  his  soul  awoke 
to  an  activity  that  shall  never  cease. 

When  death  had  thus  finished  its  silent  work,  the 
mourners  retired  to  an  adjoining  room  and  kneeled  before 

*  The  preceding  facts  were  communicated  by  !Mr.  Horace  Hall, 
a  recent  member  of  Andover  Theological  Seminaiy.  He  began  to 
write  an  account  of  these  last  scenes,  but  died  before  he  finished 
it.  He  was  attacked  with  the  same  disease  which  proved  fatal  to 
Mr.  Homer  and  died  in  the  same  room,  on  the  same  couch,  at 
about  the  same  age,  with  the  same  painful  delirium,  and  in  less 
than  a  year  from  the  same  time.  He  went  to  South  Berwick  for 
the  purpose  of  teaching  the  academy,  and  in  the  hope  of  enjoying 
the  society  of  Mr.  Homer.  He  arrived  in  season  to  have  a  few 
hours  of  intercourse  "with  the  Christian  scholar  who  was  to  die  in 
^  few  days,  and  whom  he  himself  was  to  follow  in  a  few  months. 


MEMOllt. 


Ui 


the  thfone  of  him  who  had  smitten  them.  They  had  no 
repining  thoughts,  but  felt  that  sinking  of  nature  which 
can  be  staid  only  at  the  altar  of  devotion. 

"  It  was  on  Monday  morning,"  says  a  clergyman  in  the 
vicinity  of  South  Berwick,  "  that  I  rode  over  to  see  my 
departing  friend.  Before  I  reached  the  house  over  which 
so  dark  a  cloud  was  hanging,  I  met  one  of  his  parishion- 
ers whom  I  knew  to  be  a  man  of  rare  strength  of  charac- 
ter and  firmness  of  nerve.  I  inquired  of  him  at  once  re- 
specting his  minister  ;  '  most  gone '  was  all  that  he  could 
say,  and  we  parted.  When  the  dreaded  event  had  trans- 
pired, I  went  to  the  house  of  another  parishioner,  and 
after  the  usual  civilities,  I  sat  with  the  family  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  without  their  saying  a  word.  The  general  feel- 
ing was  too  deep  to  be  expressed.  No  one  spoke  in  the 
street  except  in  low  tones." 

Wednesday  was  the  day  of  the  funeral.  A  large  con- 
Course  assembled  at  the  church  from  all  neighborhoods, 
and  from  all  the  religious  denominations  in  the  town. 
Eighteen  clergymen  were  present.  The  pulpit,  the  or- 
chestra and  the  organ  were  hung  in  black.  ''  I  can  only 
say  of  the  whole  scene,"  writes  one  who  witnessed  the 
same,  "  it  was  overwhelming." 

One  of  Mr.  Homer's  favorite  hymns,  "  There  is  an 
hour  of  peaceful  rest,"  was  sung  to  one  of  his  favorite 
tunes.  He  had  himself  recited  and  sung  the  stanzas  so 
often,  that  he  seems  to  have  selected  them  for  his  funeral 
dirge.  Rev.  Mr.  Young  of  Dover  oflfered  the  prayer. 
Four  months  previous,  he  had  given  the  Right  Hand  of 
Fellowship  to  his  friend,  and  now  his  own  emotion  was 
such  as  sometimes  to  check  his  utterance,  and  the  sobs  of 
the  audience  were  often  so  loud  as  to  make  his  words  in- 
audible. Professor  Edwards  of  Andover  preached  the 
sermon.  It  was  one  which  Mr.  Homer  had  listened  to 
eighteen  months  before  at  Andover,  and   had   spoken  of 


144  MEMOIR. 

with  the  interest  of  a  man  who  was  preparing  to  have  it 
repeated  at  his  burial.  The  text  was  1  Corinthians  15  : 
53,  "  For  this  corruptible  must  put  on  incorruption,  and 
this  mortal  must  put  on  immortality."  Rev.  Mr.  Holt  of 
Portsmouth,  who  had  recently  offered  the  ordaining  prayer, 
now  gave  the  funeral  address.  He  contrasted  the  men- 
tal associations  of  the  minister  bereft  of  his  reason,  and 
still  repeating  the  messages  of  Christian  love,  with  the 
associations  of  the  mere  scholar  or  man  of  business ; 
with  the  *^ieted'armee  "  of  the  warrior  as  he  died  amid 
the  raging  of  the  elements. 

When  these  exercises  were  closed,  the  parishioners  took 
one  more  view  of  the  inanimate  form,  and  then  followed 
it  in  procession  to  the  limits  of  the  village.  There  they 
parted  from  it  and  returned  to  their  homes  as  sheep  with- 
out a  shepherd. 

Under  the  care  of  two  of  the  most  respectable  inhabi- 
tants of  South  Berwick,  the  body  was  conveyed  to  Bos- 
ton. On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  (Thursday), 
about  three  hundred  persons  assembled  in  the  vestry  of 
Park-street  church  to  join  in  a  religious  service  prepara- 
tory to  the  entombment.  "  Never,"  says  the  pastor  of 
the  church,  ''  have  I  witnessed  the  manifestation  of  a 
deeper  sympathy.  All  hearts  appeared  smitten,  and  every 
spirit  crushed  under  the  visitation  of  the  Almighty." 
Several  clergymen  of  the  city  were  present,  and  three  of 
them  officiated  in  the  mournful  exercises,  reading  appro- 
priate hymns  and  Scriptures,  offering  prayers  to  God  and 
addressing  the  assembly.  ''  At  length,"  writes  a  former 
companion'  of  the  departed,  "  the  crowds  of  sympathizing 
friends,  after  lingering   a  moment   in  groups  around  the 

^  Mr.  J.  H.  Bancroft,  of  Boston,  a  licentiate  for  the  Christian 
ministry,  who  was  destined  to  rejoin  his  friend  after  a  short  sepa- 
ration. He  was  a  scholar,  a  poet,  of  rich  gifts,  of  high  promise* 
long  to  be  remembered  by  his  friends. 


MEMOIR.  \4$ 

coffin,  gradually  withdrew  and  the  church  was  almost  de- 
serted. Out  of  Mr.  Homer's  very  large  circle  of  literary 
friends,  many  of  whom  had  not  yet  heard  of  his  death, 
there  were  only  five  who  now  stood  together  for  their  last 
lingering  look.  It  was  hard  to  part  even  with  the  clay, 
that  had  been  animated  by  such  a  spirit.  The  expression 
of  sharp  pain  had  passed  from  the  features,  there  was  a 
repose  upon  the  countenance,  and  the  fixed  gaze  of  a 
moment  brought  back  to  the  lips  their  natural  smile. 
We  turned  away  from  the  loved  remains,  and  the  closing 
of  the  coffin-lid  told  us  that  the  face  of  our  friend  was 
hid  forever  from  our  eyes.  We  followed  the  bearers  into 
the  open  air,  and  then  into  the  aisle  of  the  dead, — and 
stood,  silent  and  sad,  until  the  coffin  disappeared  within 
the  tomb." 

On  the  Sabbath  succeeding  the  funeral.  Rev.  Mr.  Aiken 
of  Park-street  church  delineated  the  character  of  the  de- 
ceased in  a  sermon  from  Psalm  116:  15,  "  Precious  in 
the  sight  of  the  Lord  is  the  death  of  his  saints."  Dis- 
courses in  reference  to  the  event  were  preached  on  the 
same  day  by  Professor  Emerson  at  Andover  Theological 
Seminary,  and  by  several  members  of  the  Association 
with  which  Mr.  Homer  had  been  connected.  A  few  Sab- 
baths afterward  his  death  was  appropriately  noticed  in  the 
Baptist  church  at  South  Berwick.  Even  then,  the  lam- 
entation of  the  audience  resembled  that  which  was  heard 
at  his  funeral.  At  a  still  later  period,  a  eulogy  was  pro- 
nounced upon  him  in  the  Episcopal  chapel  near  the  vil- 
lage where  he  had  labored,  and  it  was  still  obvious  that 
the  fountains  of  tears  had  not  been  dried  up.  Different 
notices  of  his  character  appeared  in  several  of  our 
religious  and  political  journals,  and  the  grief  which  is  yet 
felt  for  his  death  bears  witness  to  the  good  impressions  of 
his  life.  It  is  the  wish  of  some  of  his  friends  that  his 
body  had  been  laid  in  the  burial-ground  of  his  parish, 
13 


146  Memoir. 

where  a  broken  shaft  might  rise  as  an  emblem  of  the  life 
that  was  so  abruptly  closed.  It  seemed  good  to  his 
family,  however,  that  he  should  lie  near  the  baptismal 
font  where  he  was  consecrated  to  the  God  of  his  ances- 
try, and  hard  by  the  altar  where  he  devoted  himself  to 
the  cause  for  which  he  died.  But  since  his  honored 
father  has  been  called  away  and  laid  in  one  of  the  gar- 
dens at  Mount  Auburn,  the  son  has  been  removed  to  a 
resting-place  by  his  side,  that  they  who  were  so  lovely 
and  pleasant  in  their  lives  might  not  be  divided  in  their 
death.  All  these  things,  however,  are  of  inferior  mo- 
ment ;  for  whether  he  is  to  rise  encircled  by  the  people 
of  his  charge  or  by  the  friends  of  his  youth,  he  will  come 
forth,  we  trust,  clothed  in  a  white  robe  and  with  a  palm- 
branch  in  his  hand. 

Twenty-four  years  and  less  than  two  months  made  up 
the  whole  period  of  his  life.  It  has  been  said,  that  the 
very  circumstance  of  his  untimely  death,  may  give  him 
a  better  posthumous  influence  than  he  would  have  exerted 
if  he  had  outlived  the  novelty  of  his  ministrations.  It 
was  one  of  his  own  favorite  ideas,  that  a  youthful  minis- 
ter, who  leaves  a  pure  memory  to  be  embalmed  in  the 
hearts  of  survivors,  can  enlist  more  sympathy  for  the 
truth  by  preaching  from  the  grave,  than  he  could  have 
attracted  by  spending  a  long  life  in  the  pulpit.^  It  may 
be  true  that,  in  some  respects,  the  usefulness  of  our 
friend  is  increased  by  the  fact  that  his  life  has  been 
broken  off,  but  in  other  respects  it  is  lessened.  His  mind 
was  not  a  reservoir  that  had  been  exhausted,  but  a 
fountain  that  would  have  continued  to  flow.  He  is  now 
useful  by  the  bare  fact  of  his  having  willed  to  become  so, 
and  his  unaccomplished  purposes  are  gratefully  remem- 
bered.    But  if  the  germ   of  his  good   influence   be  fra* 

*  See  his  Essay  on  the  Posthumous  Power  of  the  Pulpit. 


k 


MEMOIR.  147 

grant,  what  might  we  not  expect  from  its  ripened  fruit  ? 
It  is  said  that  death  is  gain  to  him  and  by  his  liveliness 
of  sensibility  he  is  well  fitted  for  high  enjoyment  in 
heaven.  But  we  never  grieve  for  the  dead  who  die  in 
the  Lord ;  we  weep  for  ourselves  only  and  for  our 
children.  It  is  said  that  he  was  ill  prepared  to  endure 
the  jarrings  of  the  church  in  her  militant  condition,  and 
perhaps  would  have  turned  away  in  disgust  from  public 
life.  But  time,  which  modifies  all  things,  would  have 
blunted  the  keenness  of  his  sensibility,  and  the  pain 
which  he  would  have  received  from  one  source  would  be 
more  than  balanced  by  the  pleasures  that  would  have 
come  in  from  other  sources.  From  all  such  topics  of 
consolation  we  turn  away  in  sickness  of  heart,  and  find 
no  repose  until  we  bow  down  before  the  Sovereign  who 
has  infinite  counsels,  and  all  of  them  infinitely  wise.  He 
had  reasons  for  blighting  our  hopes,  and  they  were  such 
reasons  as  we  are  too  weak  to  comprehend.  He  required 
perhaps  a  new  ornament  for  some  niche  in  the  temple 
above,  and  he  took  what  seemed  unto  him  good.  There 
is  no  accomplishment  of  our  friend,  no  treasure  of 
ancient  or  of  modern  lore,  no  aptness  for  investigation,  no 
refinement  of  sensibility,  no  grace  of  language  or  of 
thought,  but  has  already  been  combined  with  the  essential 
character  of  the  soul,  and  will  continue  to  transmit  its 
influence  long  after  tongues  have  ceased,  and  knowledge 
in  its  earthly  form  has  vanished  away.  Then  let  us  fall 
in  reverence  before  that  august  Being  who  disappointeth 
our  hopes,  and  casteth  down  our  high  imaginations.  In 
his  view  the  longest  life  is  but  one  day,  and  the  shortest 
is  a  thousand  years.  He  sends  us  forth  on  a  solemn 
mission,  and  be  our  death  sooner  or  later,  we  are  bound 
to  leave  behind  us  some  memorial  of  good.  Every 
moment  are  our  hearts  "  beating  their  funeral  marches  to 
the  grave ; "  but  as  we  go  onward,  we  may,  if  we  will, 


148  APPENDIX    TO    THE    MEMOIR. 

look  upward,  and  believe  where  we  do  not  know,  and 
hope  where  we  cannot  believe,  and  submit  where  we  dare 
not  hope.  The  voice  from  the  tomb  is,  that  we  be 
prepared  to  live  so  long  as  we  are  called  to  labor,  and 
willing  to  die  when  the  time  of  our  release  shall  come ; 
rejoicing  to  linger  on  the  earth,  which  is  after  all  so 
goodly  to  look  upon,  and  choosing  rather  to  depart  and  to 
be  present  with  the  Lord. 


APPENDIX  TO   THE   MEMOIR. 

NOTE    A.     p.  14. 
SKETCH  OF  THE  CHARACTER  OF  MR.  GEORGE  J.  HOx\IER. 

The  name  of  George  Jot  Homer  ought  not  to  be  men- 
tioned in  a  Memoir  of  his  son,  without  a  comment  on  his 
virtues.  His  character  deserves  to  be  studied  as  a  unique 
specimen  of  goodness.  It  is  seldom  that  we  discover  such  an 
original  and  marked  variety  of  Christian  excellence.  The 
central  quality,  around  which  his  other  virtues  clustered,  was 
kindness  of  heart.  His  character  was  symmetrical,  compre- 
hensive of  many  good  dispositions  ;  but  his  benevolence  shone 
forth  among  them  all  like  the  moon  among  the  stars.  He  is 
known  to  have  possessed  a  strong,  mature,  well  balanced 
mind  ;  to  have  been  a  judicious  counsellor,  discreet  and  faith- 
ful in  reproving  sin,  and  ready  to  administer  such  rebukes  as 
would  be  borne  from  no  one  less  prudent  than  himself.  Yet  it 
is  not  so  easy  to  conceive  of  him  in  the  act  of  imparting  sage 
advice  or  of  reproving  some  moral  delinquency,  as  in  the  act 
of  giving  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  one  of  the  least  of  the  disci- 
ples of  Christ.    He  is  known  to  have  been,  for  more  than 


APPENDIX    TO    THE    MEMOIR.  149 

thirty  years,  an  enterprising  and  prosperous  merchant  in  Bos- 
ton ;  to  have  been  regular  in  the  duties  of  the  counting-room, 
punctual  in  his  payments,  so  exact,  systematic  and  high- 
minded  as  to  have  sustained  through  severe  financial  crises  a 
character  unimpeached  and  unsuspected  at  home  and  abroad. 
But  it  is  difficult  for  many  of  his  friends  to  conceive  of  him  as 
strict  in  making  a  bargain,  or  to  think  of  his  counting-room  as 
a  scene  of  nice  distinctions  between  "  mine  and  thine."  The 
conception  which  his  personal  friends  are  most  apt  to  form  of 
his  habits  of  business,  is  expressed  to  the  life  in  the  following 
words  of  a  clergyman : — "  Seldom  have  any  of  my  children 
met  him,  without  receiving  some  present  adapted  to  their  age 
or  circumstances.  And  when  I  have  gone  to  his  store,  to  pur- 
chase such  articles  in  his  line  of  business  as  I  needed,  he  has 
so  frequently  insisted  on  giving  them  to  me,  that  I  have  been 
exceedingly  embarrassed  by  his  generosity,  and  in  a  number 
of  instances  have  actually  gone  to  other  places  to  trade,  lest  it 
should  be  thought  that  I  called  on  him  with  the  expectation  of 
receiving  a  gratuitous  supply  of  my  wants." 

The  benevolence  of  Mr.  Homer  was  peculiar  for  its  hearti- 
ness. It  was  a  fountain  welling  up  and  flowing  forth  in  grate- 
ful charities  ;  it  was  benevolence,  as  distinguished  from  that 
mere  beneficence  which  may  be  the  result  of  policy  or  of  fear. 
He  performed  his  useful  deeds  with  singular  ease.  Some  men 
appear  to  be  always  laboring  to  do  good.  We  feel  in  con- 
versing with  them  that  they  are  calculating  on  some  method 
of  producing  a  right  impression  upon  us.  But  Mr.  Homer's 
goodness  seemed  to  come  of  itself.  He  spoke  the  right  word 
or  did  the  right  thing,  not  as  if  he  had  determined  on  it  after 
painful  examination,  but  as  if  he  had  never  thought  of  the 
possibility  of  his  doing  or  saying  otherwise.  Hence  men  did 
not  feel  constrained  in  his  society,  but  felt  at  home  with  him 
because  he  appeared  to  be  at  home  with  himself.  He  was  so 
simple  and  natural  in  the  expression  of  his  goodness,  there 
was  so  little  of  effort  and  straining  for  effect  in  his  alms-giv- 
ing, that  it  seemed  easy  to  be  just  like  him ;  and  men,  who 
admired  his  generosity,  forgot  the  inward  struggle  which  the 
imitation  of  it  would  cost  them.  He  was  a  strictly  conscien- 
13* 


150  APPENDIX    TO    THE    MEMOIR. 

tious  man,  but  was  the  friend  rather  than  the  servant  of  his 
moral  sense ;  was  happy  in  being  benevolent,  rather  than 
benevolent  for  the  sake  of  being  happy.  He  gave  to  the  poor, 
not  merely  because  he  felt  that  he  ought  to  give,  but  because 
he  loved  to  give.  He  did  not  submit  to  the  law  of  right,  so 
much  as  he  chose  to  fulfil  it ;  and  his  daily  charities  sprung 
from  the  heartiness  of  his  affection,  and  not  from  the  fear  of 
being  reproached  by  the  stern  monitor  of  duty  within  him. 
He  was  eminently  a  "  cheerful  giver,"  instead  of  a  grudging 
benefactor ;  a  genuine  philanthropist,  instead  of  a  merely  use- 
ful man. 

His  benevolence  was  diffusive  ;  it  was  true  liberality.,  limited 
to  no  one  party,  sect  or  clique.  He  was  one  of  the  earliest 
patrons  of  the  charitable  societies  of  the  day  ;  but  he  did  not 
turn  all  his  beneficence  into  the  channel  of  these  associations. 
His  house  was  the  clergyman's  home.  He  loaded  the  depart- 
ing missionary  with  private  mementoes  of  his  regard.  He 
furnished  the  candidate  for  the  ministry  with  books  and  cloth- 
ing. When  he  visited  literary  men  of  meagre  income,  "  he 
has  sometimes,"  writes  one  of  them,  "  left  a  bundle  of  bank- 
notes in  the  Bible  or  in  the  drawer  of  the  work-stand,"  and 
gone  away  without  an  allusion  to  this  sign  of  his  good  will. 
He  abounded  in  private  benefactions  to  the  feeble  churches  of 
our  land,  contributing  largely  for  their  houses  of  worship,  their 
social  libraries,  and  the  support  of  their  pastors.  Nor  did  he 
confine  his  charities  to  strictly  religious  objects.  The  Presi- 
dent of  many  a  college  received  from  him  a  rich  donation ; 
many  a  timid  freshman  was  presented  with  a  valuable  classic  ; 
the  invalid  embarking  for  a  foreign  land  was  furnished  with 
conveniences  for  his  tour  ;  the  merchant  was  saved  from  bank- 
ruptcy by  his  timely  aid  ;  the  clerk  was  cheered  on  by  his  re- 
wards to  renewed  faithfulness  and  perseverance  ;  he  relieved 
the  cab-man  from  his  pecuniary  distresses  ;  he  secured  profit- 
able labor  for  the  reformed  inebriate  ;  he  sent  to  many  a  poor 
widow  just  those  articles  of  furniture  which  were  needed  for 
her  dependent  household,  and  he  gave  to  little  children  the 
toys  which  would  make  them  happy  for  the  day.  A  distin- 
guished Unitarian  philanthropist  says  of  him  : — "  He  took  a 


APPENDIX    TO    THE    MEMOIR.  151 

lively  interest  in  the  poor  boys  at  the  Farm  School ;  and  many 
a  time,  if  he  saw  them  at  my  store,  he  would  come  over,  take 
them  by  the  hand,  give  them  friendly  advice,  walk  with  them 
to  his  own  store,  and  the  boys  would  return  each  with  a  pen- 
knife and  tracts.  He  invariably  g-ave  each  of  those  who  were 
going  from  the  Institution  a  knife,  good  advice,  and  little 
books ;  so  that  in  after  years  they  would  write  me.  Give  my 
love  to  the  boys  at  the  Farm  School'  and  to  Mr.  Homer." 
"  The  late  Dr.  Tuckerman,  (a  Unitarian  clergyman  and  an 
eminent  philanthropist,)  loved  Mr.  Homer,  and  often  remarked 
to  me,  that  it  encouraged  him  in  his  duties  to  visit  brother  H., 
who  sympathized  so  deeply  in  his  labors.  His  life  and  char- 
acter did  more  for  Protestantism  than  that  of  any  one  I  ever 
knew  ;  for  the  Catholics  loved  him,  he  was  so  true  a  Christian, 
and  he  had  great  influence  over  many  of  them.  One  of  them 
often  called  on  me  during  Mr.  Homer's  last  sickness,  and  said 
he  w^as  afraid  he  should  lose  his  best  friend ;  and  when  he 
heard  of  his  loss,  he  wept  like  a  child." 

The  diffusiveness  of  Mr.  Homer's  charity  resembled  that  of 
his  great  Master,  who  was  attentive  to  the  corporeal  necessi- 
ties of  men,  and  did  not  limit  his  compassion  to  the  calamities 
of  the  soul.  It  was  so  expansive,  because  it  was  so  natural. 
Religion  found  Mr.  Homer  a  benevolent  man,  and  it  increased 
and  purified  his  native  kindness.  Without  his  piety  he  would 
have  been  called  good,  in  the  parlance  of  the  world ;  with  his 
piety  he  won  the  esteem  of  all  who  revere,  and  even  of  those 
who  condemn  his  religious  faith.  His  life  is  instructive,  as  it 
shows  how  much  the  attractiveness  of  religion  is  increased  by 
a  generous  temper ;  how  much  of  moral  power  is  gained  by 
that  large-hearted  and  large-handed  philanthropy  which  fills 
out  and  goes  beyond  the  strictly  ecclesiastical  charities,  and 
strives  to  prevent  distress  as  distress,  to  promote  happiness  as 
happiness,  wherever  it  can  be  done,  among  strangers  or  friends, 
political  opponents  or  confederates,  in  the  private  retreat  or 
the  large  community,  in  the  body  or  the  mind.  Wherever 
there  was  suffering,  the  fountains  of  his  sympathy  were  broken 
up ;  and  therefore  all  men,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  learned 
and  the  ignorant,  those  who  agreed  with  him  and  those  who 


152  APPENDIX    TO    THE    MEMOIR. 

differed  from  him  in  his  speculative  views,  did  him  reverence  as 
a  pure-minded  and  single-hearted  follower  of  Jesus.  There  was 
something  truly  sublime  in  the  spectacle  at  his  funeral ;  so 
many  widows  were  there  and  orphan  children,  so  many  wrin- 
kled old  men,  young  mechanics  and  sailors,  so  many  lame,  de- 
formed, or  otherwise  unsightly  persons,  so  many  whose  dress 
and  mien  showed  that  they  were  poor,  friendless,  sickly,  de- 
serted, all  pressing  up  to  catch  one  more  glance  at  the  face  of 
him  who  had  searched  them  out  in  their  distress,  and  com- 
forted them.  Military  obsequies  are  a  childish  pageantry, 
compared  with  the  honor  of  being  followed  to  the  tomb  by 
blind  or  decrepid  men,  and  lame  women,  and  poorly  clad  chil- 
dren, each  mourning  the  loss  of  a  protector. 

Akin  to  Mr.  Homer's  benevolence,  partly  comprehended 
under  it,  was  his  modesty.  His  very  name  suggests  the  prin- 
ciple which  seeketh  not  her  own,  which  letteth  not  the  left 
hand  know  what  the  right  hand  doeth.  We  often  associate  a 
man's  character  with  some  particular  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenance or  attitude  of  his  body  ;  and  there  are  not  a  few  who 
uniformly  recall  the  image  of  Mr.  Homer,  as  elevating  his 
head,  extending  his  hand,  "  giving  away  "  some  article  which 
he  thought  would  be  of  use  to  them,  and  uttering  the  low- 
toned  words,  "  You  need  not  say  any  thing  about  this."  Of 
the  hundreds  who  were  assembled  at  his  funeral,  probably 
more  than  half  had  been  the  recipients  of  some  favor  from 
him  which  he  had  requested  them  not  to  make  known.  It  was 
interesting  to  hear  one  and  another  say  in  cautious  tones,  "  I 
am  indebted  to  him  for  kindnesses  which  1  am  not  at  liberty 
to  mention."  His  heart  was  so  much  absorbed  in  the  welfare 
of  others,  that  he  did  not  appear  to  notice  the  applause  which 
he  gained  by  his  disinterested  life.  So  highly  was  he  es- 
teemed for  his  prudence  and  discretion,  that  he  was  often  so- 
licited to  become  a  candidate  for  political  office  ;  but,  although 
his  interest  in  politics  was  deep,  he  shrunk  from  all  such  pub- 
lic manifestation  of  it.  He  resigned  office  to  those  who  loved 
it  more  than  he.  He  refused  preferment  in  the  charitable  so- 
cieties which  he  aided,  and  the  highest  honor  which  he  is  now 
remembered  to  have  accepted  in  these  associations,  is  that  of 


APPENDIX    TO    THE    MEMOIR.  15S 

auditor  of  accounts.  He  would  seldom  speak  a  word  in  the 
meeting  of  the  church  of  which  he  was  an  exemplary  member, 
but  he  loved  to  listen  to  his  brethren,  how  inferior  soever  they 
were  to  himself.  He  usually  sat  in  a  retired  place  at  these 
meetings,  yielding  the  front  seats  to  such  as  were  less  reluc- 
tant to  take  them ;  and  it  must  be  confessed  of  him  as  of 
another,  that  "  he  did  not  manage  his  brave  parts  to  his  best 
advantage  and  preferment,  but  lost  himself  in  an  humble  way." 
The  amount  of  good,  which  Mr.  Homer  accomplished,  can 
not  be  known  in  this  world.  It  is  impossible  to  measure  the 
influence  of  a  guileless  life.  If  he  had  endeavored  to  perform 
some  shining  exploit  and  attract  the  gaze  of  men,  he  might 
have  collected  into  one  charity  all  the  donations  which  he  dis- 
tributed among  the  poor,  and  therewith  have  founded  some 
useful  institution  which  would  have  borne  his  name  and  stood 
as  a  monument  of  his  philanthropy.  But  he  chose  to  scatter 
his  munificence.  His  goodness  was  like  the  dew  distilling 
gently  over  the  whole  wide  field,  while  that  of  some  others  is 
like  the  stream  fertilizing  the  banks  on  either  hand.  Our 
Bartletts  are  to  be  honored  for  the  magnificent  endowments 
which  they  make,  even  if  they  are  necessitated  thereby  to 
concentrate  their  charities  within  a  limited  sphere.  Every 
liberal  man  has  his  own  proper  calling.  It  is  not  a  sure  sign 
of  a  naturally  avaricious  spirit,  that  a  man  will  withhold  small 
contributions  while  he  is  prodigal  of  large  bequests.  Neither 
is  it  true  that  the  influence  of  a  philanthropist  is  lessened  by 
his  dispensing  the  daily  charities  of  life  so  profusely  as  to  be 
unable  to  establish  Professorships  and  endow  Asylums.  The 
usefulness  of  a  man  is  diminished,  when  ostentation  is  mingled 
with  his  philanthropy,  or  when  a  dread  of  the  public  gaze  de- 
ters him  from  the  beneficence  which  he  owes  to  his  kind.  His 
motive  will  sooner  or  later  peer  through  his  deeds,  be  they  ex- 
posed or  covert.  It  was  the  noble  heart  of  Mr.  Homer  which 
made  him  the  solace  of  the  widow  and  orphan,  the  comfort  of 
troubled  households,  the  guide  of  erring  youth,  the  almoner  of 
Heaven's  bounties  to  thousands  who  drank  of  the  stream  with- 
out a  knowledge  of  the  fountain.  The  secrecy  of  his  benevo- 
lence was  well  known  ;  and  while  many  particulars  relating  to 


154  APPENDIX    TO    THE    MEMOIR. 

his  generosity  are  buried  in  the  hearts  of  the  poor,  the  humil- 
ity with  which  he  concealed  them  has  been  made  an  object  for 
general  and  admiring  imitation.  The  sorrow  and  the  love 
which  followed  him  to  the  tomb,  and  now  linger  around  his 
memory,  are  a  proof  that  his  unobtrusive  spirit  had  exerted  a 
mellowing  influence  on  the  hearts  of  men.  One  of  the  noble 
minded  and  most  opulent  merchants  of  Boston  has  recently 
reprinted,  at  his  own  expense,  the  story  of  La  Roche,  as  a 
kind  of  parallel  to  the  life  of  Mr.  Homer,  and  in  the  Preface 
to  the  Story  it  is  said  : 

"  I  have  another  reason  for  wishing  this  tract  republished. 
If  the  life  and  character  of  La  Roche  be  ideal,  they  may  be 
emulated  and  equalled.  Indeed  there  is  so  great  a  resemblance 
between  them  and  those  of  our  excellent  friend,  the  late  George 
Joy  Homer,  that  I  do  not  know  in  what  respect  he  was  inferior 
to  the  Swiss  Pastor.  From  youth  to  old  age,  he  was  faithful  and 
diligent  in  all  the  duties  of  a  humble,  pious  man ;  and,  though 
sincerely  attached  to  the  principles  of  his  own  church,  he  had 
unbounded  charity  for  every  church  of  Christ,  and  for  every 
member  of  it.  His  religion  was  not  a  mere  code  of  articles  ; 
it  was  practical,  a  part  of  his  daily  life,  controlling  and  guid- 
ing all  he  said  and  did.  He  strove  ever  to  be  '  found  watch- 
ing,' and  lived  each  hour  as  if  it  might  be  his  last  on  earth. 
In  the  church,  in  the  counting-room,  in  his  family,  and  in  the 
street,  he  was  uniformly  the  same  happy,  faithful  servant  of 
his  Master.  He  was,  indeed,  a  hard  worker,  a  good  neighbor, 
and  an  honest,  pious  man ;  true  in  all  the  relations  of  life, 
God-ward,  and  man-ward. 

"  In  reading  the  story  of  La  Roche,  let  no  one  say  it  depicts 
a  character  which  mortals  cannot  imitate.  For  it  was  not 
marked  by  traits  of  greater  purity,  benevolence,  charity  or 
usefulness  than  that  of  our  friend,  who  has  gone  to  his  reward. 
Let  us  reflect  often  upon  his  pure  and  useful  life,  the  princi- 
ples by  which  it  was  directed,  and  the  Christian  liberality 
which  adorned  it ;  and  take  heart,  when  we  think  that  one  may 
be  so  good,  so  useful,  so  much  loved  and  respected,  and  yet 
dwell  in  mortal  form.  The  characters  of  such  faithful  ones 
should  be  guarded  and  cherished  for  their  own  sakes,  and  for 


APPENDIX    fO    THE    MEMOIR.  155 

the  sake  of  those  who  come  after  them.  They  are  our  most 
precious  public  property.  Their  lives  are  charts,  by  which,  if 
wise,  we  may  shape  our  own  course  over  the  ocean  of  life, 
hoping,  through  the  love  and  mercy  of  their  God  and  our  God, 
for  a  future,  never  ending  retinion. 

'  Mark  the  perfect  man,  and  behold  the  upright  5 
For  the  end  of  that  man  is  peace.' 

"  Our  friend  never  held  high  office,  nor  moved  in  fashionable 
society,  nor  obtained  great  wealth.  Let  it,  therefore,  be  borne 
in  mind,  that  it  is  not  by  such  means,  but  for  the  good  we  do  to 
others,  that  we  are  remembered  and  mentioned  with  love  and 
respect,  when  the  places  which  have  known  us  here,  know  us 
no  more." 

It  is  alike  honorable  to  Mr.  Homer  and  to  the  merchants  of 
Boston,  (some  of  whom  are  princes  indeed,)  that  soon  after  his 
death  they  came  forward  of  their  own  accord,  and  erected  a 
beautiful  monument  to  his  memory  at  Mount  Auburn.  The 
Inscription  upon  it  is  the  following  : 

En  iiacmorg  of 
GEOEGE   JOY  HOMER, 

A  CITIZEN  OP  BOSTON, 

Who  was  born  January  4th,  1782, 

And  died  June  7th,  1845  : 

AN   INTELLIGENT   AND    UmiGHT    MERCHANT, 

A  FRIEND  AND  BENEFACTOR  OF  THE  POOR, 

A   GUIDE   AND    COUNSELLOR   OF   THE    ERRING  ; 

TENDER  AND   TRUE   IN  ALL   THE   RELATIONS   OF  DOMESTIC   LIFE  ; 

A  DEVOUT   AND   PIOUS    CHRISTIAN  ; 

THIS  MONUMENT 

IS    ERECTED   TO    PERPETUATE   THE    MEMORY   OF   HIS    VIRTUES, 

BY 

MANY   FRIENDS. 


156  APPENDIX    TO    THE    MEMOIR. 


NOTE   B.     p.  63. 
PLAN  OF  LECTURES  ON  HOMER  AND  DEMOSTHENES. 

The  following  are  the  subjects  of  his  intended  Lectures,  and 
the  Books  of  Reference  which  he  selected  after  careful  exam- 
ination. 

I. 

CouESE  OF  Lectures  on  the  Iliad. 

L  The  German  Theoiy  of  Homer.— II.  The  Life  of  Homer.— 
ni.  The  Plot  and  Analysis  of  the  Story.— IV.  The  Mythology  of 
the  Poem. — V.  Similes.  —  VI.  Descriptions.  —  VII.  Characters  : 
(Warriors,  Old  Men,  Females.) — VHI.  Language  :  (Dialects,  Me- 
tre, Harmony  in  sound  and  sentiment.) — IX.  Remarkable  Pas- 
sages :  (Parting  of  Hector  with  Andromache,  AchiUes'  Shield, 
Battle  with  Rivers,  Games,  Priam's  Supplication.) — X.  Geogra- 
phy, Truth  to  nature,  Tenderness,  Epithets,  Manners,  Repetition, 
Military  Discipline. 

n. 

Course  of  Lectures  ox  the  Odyssey. 

I.  Comparison  between  the  Odyssey  and  Iliad,  and  identity  of 
authorship. — II.  Plot  and  Analysis  of  the  Story. — III.  Mythology : 
(Elysium,  Olympus,  Necyomanteia,  etc.) — IV.  Manners. — V.  De- 
scriptions. —  VI.  Characters.  —  VII.  Remarkable  Passages  :  (Pro- 
teus, Garden  of  Alcinous,  Cyclops,  Circe,  Scylla  and  Charybdis.) — 
VIII.  Similes,  Language,  Tenderness,  Simplicity,  Geography. 

Four  or  five  Lectures  on  the  Lesser  Poems. 

Books  of  Reference. 
Wood's  Essay  on  the  Original  Genius  of  Homer.— Wolffs  Pro- 
legomena.— Knight's  Prolegoncma.  (See  Classical  Journal,  Vols. 
Vn,  Vin.) — Granville  Penn's  Primary  Argument  of  the  Iliad.— 
Review  of  Granville  Penn,  London  Quarterly,  XXVH. — Rejoin- 
der.—Classical  Journal,  XXVI.— Pope's  several  Essays  on  Homer. 
— Dionysius  Halicarnassus  de  compositione  verborum. — Homeric 
Question,  American  Quarterly,  II ;  London  Quarterly,  XLIV ; 
Edinburgh  Review,  LXII ;  North  American  Review,  XXXVII. — 
Biilwer's  Athens,  Book  I.  Chap.  8.— Book  II.  Chap.  2.— Schubart's 
Ideen  ueber  Homer  und  sein  Zeitalter  ;  (advocating  very  ably  the 
position  that  Homer  was  a  Trojan.)— Hcercn's  Politics  of  Ancient 
Greece.  —  Dalzel's  Lectures  on  Greek  Literature.  —  Review  of 
Sotheby's  Translation,  Edinburgh  Review,  LI. — Review  of  Hejiie's 
Homer,  Edinburgh  Review,  11. — Comparison  between  Hesiod  and 
Homer,  London  Quarterly,  XL  VII. — Thirl  wall's  History  of  Greece, 
Vol.  I.— Blackwall's  Life  of  Homer.     (Mythology,  Travels,  Geog- 


APPENDIX    TO    THE    MEMOIR.  157 

raphy.)— Clarke's  Travels. — Madame  Dacier  on  Homer. — Transla- 
tion of  the  Homeric  Hymns,  Blackwood's  Magazine,  Vols.  30,  31, 
32. — Mitford's  History  of  Greece,  Vol.  I. — Histoiro  d'Homere  par 
M.  Delisle  do  Sales. — Franceron  Essai  sur  le  question  si  Hom^re 
a  connu  1' usage  de  I'ecriture. — Constant  de  la  Religion,  Tome  3, 
Livres  7,  8.— Hug's  Erfindung  dor  Buchstabenschrift. — Krcuser's 
Vorfrage  ueber  Homeros,  seine  Zeit,  und  Ges'dnge.  Frankfort  am 
Main,  1828. — Schoell's  Gcschiclite  der  Griecluschen  Literatur. 
Band  1. — Nitzch.  de  Historia  Homeri  Meletemata. — St.  Croix'  Re- 
futation d'un  paradoxe  literaire. — Thiersch's  Urgestalt  der  Odys- 
see. — Feith's  Antiquitates  Homericae.— Travels  of  Anacharsis. — 
Le  Chevalier's  Beschreibung  der  Ebene  von  Trqja. — Voyage  de  la 
Troade.  (Translated  into  English  by  Dalzel.) — Herder's  Schriften 
zur  Griechischen  Literatur.  (Translated,  Blackwood,  XLII.) — 
Ulysse. — Homere  par  Constantin  Tholiades. — Review  of  Sotheby's 
Translation  of  Homer,  Blackwood,  Vols.  29,  30,  31. — Rapin's  Crit- 
ical Works,  Vol.  I. — Dionysius  Halicarnasseus. — Ars  Rhetorica, 
Chap.  VIII,  IX,  XI. — Ko6s'  Commentatio  de  Discrepantiis  quibus- 
dam  in  Odyssea  occurrentibus.  Hafniae,  1806. — Besseldt's  Erkla- 
rinde  Einleitung  zu  Homer's  Odyssee.  Konigsburg,  1816. — G. 
Lange's  Versucli  die  poetische  Einheit  der  Odyssee  zu  bcstimmen. 
Darmstadt,  1826. — Topography  of  Troy,  and  its  vicinity,  by  W. 
Gell,  Esq.  of  Jesus  College.  London,  1804. — The  History  of  Ilium 
or  Troy,  by  the  author  of  Travels  in  Asia  Minor  and  Greece. 
(Richard  Chandler,  D.  D.)  London,  1802. — Dissertation  concern- 
ing the  War  of  Troy,  and  the  Expedition  of  the  Grecians  ;  show- 
ing that  no  such  expedition  was  ever  undertaken,  and  that  no  such 
city  of  Phrygia  ever  existed ;  by  Jacob  Bryant,  1796. — Several 
Replies  to  Bryant  by  J.  B.  S.  Morritt,  Esq. — Remarks  and  Observ- 
ations on  the  Plain  of  Troy,  made  during  an  excursion  in  June, 
1799,  by  William  Franklin,  Captain  in  the  service  of  the  East  In- 
dia Company,  London,  1800.— Thiersch  ueber  das  Zeitalter  und 
Vaterlaud  des  Homer.  Halberstadt,  1824.— Dr.  K.  H.  W.  Volcker 
ueber  Ilomerische  Geographic  und  Weltkunde.     Hanover,  1830. 

III. 

Course  of  Lectures  on  Demosthenes. 

I.  The  Constitution  of  Athens.— H.  The  Life  of  Demosthenes, 
on  the  basis  of  the  usual  biographies,  with  a  complete  account  of 
his  controversy  Math  his  guardians,  and  his  letters  from  exile. — IH. 
The  Rise,  History  and  Career  of  Philip. — IV.  The  Orations  of 
Demosthenes  against  Philip ;  their  history  and  analysis. — V.  The 
Style  of  Demosthenes  as  developed  in  these  speeches. — VI.  The 
remaining  Public  Orations  of  Demosthenes. — VII.  The  Legal  Ora- 
tory of  Demosthenes.  (Leptines,  Midias,  etc.) — VIII.  The  Con- 
troversy de  Corond.— IX.  Translation  of  Dionysius  de  vi  Demos- 
thenis. — X.  Demosthenes  compared  with  Cicero  and  Modern  Ora- 
tors. 

Books  of  Reference. 

Mitford's  History  of  Greece,  Vols.  VI,  VII,  passim.   Vide  Chap. 
38,  Sec.  3.— Travels  of  Anacharsis. — Longinus  de  Sublimitate. — 
14 


158  APPENDIX    TO    THE    MEMOIR. 

Dionysius  Halicarnasseus. — Rapin's  Critical  Works,  Vol.  I. — Fen- 
elon  on  Eloquence. — Reinhard's  Confessions,  p.  38.— Cicero — Bru- 
tus, 9.— Orator,  7,  8,  31. — Quinctilian,  X.  1.  105,  (comparison  be- 
tween Demostlienes  and  Cicero.)  Demosthenes  als  Staatsmann 
und  Redner — von  Becker. — Hume's  Essays,  (Eloquence.) — Edin- 
burgh Review,  Vols.  XII,  XXXIII,  XXXVI.— Quarterly  Review, 
Vol.  XXIX.-North  American  Review,  Vol.  XXII.— Biblical  Re- 
pository for  1838,  p.  34. — Heeren's  Ancient  Greece. — Brougham's 
Sketches  of  Public  Characters,  Vol.  II.— D.  Jenisch's  iEsthetisch- 
kritische  Parallele  der  Demosthenes  und  Cicero,  Berlin,  1801. 


LITERARY  ADDRESSES. 


The  first  of  the  following  Articles  is  the  Essay  on  the  Posthu- 
mous Power  of  the  Pulpit,  with  which  Mr.  Homer  closed  the 
exercises  of  his  class  at  the  thirty- second  Anniversary  of  Andover 
Theological  Seminary.  The  second  is  an  Oration  on  the  Dramatic 
Element  in  Pulpit  Oratory,  pronounced  before  the  Porter  Rhetori- 
cal Society  in  Andover  Theological  Institution,  on  ]\Ionday, 
August  31,  1840.  See  page  58  of  the  Memoir.  These  two 
Addresses  and  the  Sermons  which  follow  them  are  arranged,  with 
a  single  exception,  according  to  the  order  of  time  in  which  they 
were  written. 


LITERARY  ADDRESSES, 


ESSAY  ON  THE  POSTHUMOUS  POWER  OF  THE 
PULPITJ 

It  is  one  criterion  of  the  value  of  the  human  soul,  that 
such  a  price  has  been  paid  for  its  redemption.  It  would 
be  a  just  estimate  of  the  worth  of  the  mind,  did  we 
measure  it  by  the  toils  and  sacrifices  which  in  all  ages 
have  been  endured  for  its  advancement.  The  principle 
of  vicarious  suffering  extends  beyond  that  atoning  cross 
which  is  its  chief  development.  It  pervades  all  history. 
It  connects  itself  indissolubly  with  the  progress  of  man. 
The  world  is  one  great  altar  of  sacrifice,  to  which  all 
minds  have  contributed  their  offerings.  One  who  stands 
on  the  eminences  of  the  present,  may  look  down  on  the 
long  period  of  the  past  and  say,  The  great  ones  of  other 
ages  have  toiled  for   me,  and   I  have   entered   into   their 

*  Rev  Mr.  Aiken,  of  Boston,  in  the  discourse  which  is  referred 
to  on  the  145th  page  of  the  Memoir,  remarked,  **  Had  Mr.  Homer 
looked  into  the  future  with  prophetic  eye,  he  could  scarcely  have 
uttered  sentiments  more  applicable  to  his  own  case,  than  the 
following,  which  fell  from  his  lii:>s  on  occasion  of  his  lea^dng  the 
Theological  Seminary  at  their  last  Anniversary.  *  The  preacher, 
who  casts  his  eye  far  down  the  lapse  of  ages  into  the  very  bosom 
of  that  eternity  where  time  shall  almost  be  forgotten,  such  a  one 
will  make  his  life  a  life,  short  though  it  be,  and  will  count  its  days 
by  laboi's,  and  its  years  by  fruits.  In  the  great  harvest  the  question 
shall  be  not  /ioio  lo7ig,  but  Jiow  much.  We  shall  all  be  there,  these 
venerable  laborers  from  the  vineyard,  and  those  who  go  do^WTi  to 
their  graves  youthful  and  strong.'  " 


162  THE    POSTHUMOUS    POWER 

harvest.  In  me  may  be  centering  all  the  sacrifices  and 
labors  ever  endured  for  learning  and  for  truth.  I  stood 
by  the  pile  of  Polycarp,  or  studied  in  the  cloister  of 
Augustine,  or  heard  Luther  thunder  from  the  old  high 
pulpit,  or  sat  through  the  second  hour-glass  of  Mather's 
long  discourse,  because  for  me,  the  martyr  and  the  monk, 
the  reformer  and  the  puritan  have  lived  and  labored  and 
died.  So  impressed  were  some  of  the  old  theologians 
with  this  connection  between  the  present  and  the  past, 
that  they  fastened  on  Adam's  posterity  an  identity  with 
his  person  and  his  crime,  and  crowded  the  whole  family 
of  man  into  the  very  garden  where  they  were  doomed  to 
sinfulness  and  to  wo. 

Prominent  among  the  almoners  of  this  posthumous 
power  is  the  pulpit.  The  preacher  is  laboring  for  the 
future,  for  eternity.  Death  or  the  sure  current  of  time 
often  bears  him  onward  to  a  sphere  of  action  too  vast  for 
life.  Perhaps  he  is  doomed  like  all  great  minds  to  the 
misfortune  of  outstripping  the  tardy  age  by  a  precocious 
growth.  Time  will  be  faithful  in  bringing  round  the 
hour  of  his  recompense,  when  death  shall  arrest  his 
progress  and  allow  him  to  be  overtaken  and  honored  by  a 
slow-moving  world.  Perhaps  he  toils  in  a  sphere  of 
slender  opportunities.  Death  will  disentangle  the  spirit 
from  time  and  space,  the  present  barriers  of  its  influence, 
and  make  it  cross  oceans,  and  it  may  be  pervade  the 
earth.  Perhaps  he  is  cut  off  from  the  midst  of  brilliant 
and  successful  exertion.  Death  by  its  startling  sudden- 
ness will  so  quicken  his  power,  that  it  shall  surpass  the 
living  voice.  Milton  was  reviled  by  his  contemporaries 
as  a  "  black  mouthed  Zoilus,"  **  a  profane  and  lascivious 
poetaster ;  "  but  how  soon  did  posterity  gather  around  his 
bier,  and  the  tribute  to  the  despised  dreamer  became  the 
worship  of  a  prophet  indeed.  The  classical  and  learned 
discourses  of  Jeremy   Taylor   may  have  been  lost  to  the 


OF    THE    PULPIT. 


fro 


servants  and  children  of  Lord  Carberry,  to  whom  they 
were  first  preached.  But  the  light  then  kindled  at 
Golden  Grove,  among  the  peasantry  of  Wales,  was  des- 
tined to  be  one  of  the  altar  fires  of  the  British  pulpit, 
and  for  ages  to  come  the  treasures  collected  for  that  young 
and  illiterate  audience  shall  be  the  wealth  of  scholars. 
There  are  some  present  who  mourned  the  premature 
extinction  of  that  graceful  luminary  which  shed  its  mild 
light  on  the  churches  of  our  neighboring  city,  in  the  hour 
of  their  darkness  and  peril.  But  how  much  more  may 
have  been  accomplished  by  the  spirit  of  the  youthful 
Huntington,  moving  amid  those  churches  in  the  quick- 
ened memory  of  his  few  first  fruits,  than  if  he  had  lived 
till  now,  and  had  come  up  here  to-day,  with  white  head 
and  venerable  mien  to  receive  our  homage.  And  through 
the  whole  history  of  the  past,  how  much  more  may  such 
minds  have  accomplished  by  this  invisible  transmigration 
of  their  power,  than  if  they  had  continued  until  now  to 
animate  their  mortal  frames,  walking  among  men  with  all 
the  hindrances  of  direct  communion,  and  pent  up  within 
the  close  walls  of  an  earthly  tabernacle.  How  wise  is 
that  Providence  by  which  the  world  is  not  left  to  stand 
still  and  grow  old,  but  age  follows  age  and  generation 
comes  to  the  relief  of  generation  in  bearing  on  the 
gathered  resources  of  the  past,  and  we  of  the  present 
enter  into  our  work  like  those  Spanish  princes  who  lived 
and  reveled  and  reigned  in  the  cemeteries  of  their 
ancestors  and  over  their  very  dust. 

The  preacher  must  be  sensible  through  his  whole 
ministry  of  his  own  fellowship  with  the  past.  In  his 
study  he  is  surrounded  by  a  host  of  these  invisible  spirits, 
not  merely  as  they  stand  embedded  in  parchment  within 
his  library,  but  as  with  real  presence  they  touch  the 
chords  of  feeling,  or  move  the  springs  of  intellect,  or 
guide  the  glowing  pen.     In   the  pulpit  they  stand  by  his 


Of.  THF 


164  THE    POSTHUMOUS    POWER 

side  to  animate  his  action  or  to  point  his  language,  and 
sometimes  they  whisper  the  words  of  ancient  piety  after 
its  spirit  is  gone.  "The  common-places  of  prayers  and 
of  sermons,"  suggests  a  late  eccentric  writer,  "  are  each 
the  select  expression  of  some  stricken  or  jubilant  soul, 
but  now,  like  the  zodiac  of  Denderah,  and  the  astronomi- 
cal monuments  of  the  Hindoos,  they  do  but  mark  the 
height  to  which  the  waters  once  rose."  Should  some  old 
puritan  be  summoned  from  his  grave  to  visit  the  churches 
that  have  swerved  most  from  his  fondly-cherished  stand- 
ards, he  might  wonder  to  find  a  worship  so  goodly  amid 
the  very  ruins  of  his  faith ;  where  filial  affection  has 
graved  on  the  memory  and  stereotyped  in  the  usage  the 
phrases  that  are  orthodox  and  old. 

The  people  also  as  well  as  their  spiritual  teachers,  feel 
the  posthumous  power  of  the  pulpit.  In  that  great 
analysis  which  shall  one  day  be  made  of  the  world's 
history,  the  influence  of  the  pastor  will  stand  forth  as  one 
chief  element  which  has  formed  and  modified  society. 
The  elevation  of  his  office,  the  dignity  of  his  pursuits, 
the  solemn  scenes  where  he  mingles  with  men,  all  com- 
bine to  invest  his  person  with  a  mystery  which  throws  far 
and  wide  a  hallowing  influence.  When  he  dies,  the 
remembrances  of  his  example  and  counsel  are  often 
gathered  as  the  relics  of  a  master  spirit,  and  the  word 
that  dropped  from  his  lips  almost  unconsciously  and  long 
ago,  will  be  living  and  working  when  the  voice  is 
hushed.  There  is  a  beautiful  village  of  New  England 
from  which  Whitefield  was  driven  with  such  rancorous 
abuse,  that  he  shook  ofl"  the  dust  of  his  feet  and  pro- 
claimed that  the  Spirit  of  God  should  not  visit  that  spot, 
till  the  last  of  those  persecutors  was  dead.  The  good 
man's  curse  had  a  fearful  power  in  it,  though  he  was  not 
divinely  armed  with  the  prophet's  sword.  A  conscious- 
ness of  desertion  paralyzed  the  energies  of  that  church  ; 


OF    THE    PULPIT.  165 

for  nearly  a  century  it  was  nurtured  on  the  unwholesome 
food  of  a  strange  doctrine,  in  the  very  garden  of  natural 
loveliness  it  sat  like  a  heath  in  the  desert  upon  which 
there  could  be  no  rain,  and  not  till  that  whole  generation 
had  passed  from  the  earth  did  Zion  appear  there  in  her 
beauty  and  strength. 

It  is  the  sentiment  of  an  American  theologian,  one 
who  has  himself  lived  to  be  spoken  of  and  admired  as 
other  men  are  after  death,  *'  Preach  for  posterity."  It 
cannot  be  denied  that  some  preachers  live  too  exclusively 
in  the  future.  Their  plans  are  for  prospective  rather 
than  for  immediate  usefulness.  They  elaborate  for  after 
ages,  and  depend  too  little  upon  the  living  voice,  and  the 
glorious  consciousness  of  doing  now.  They  stop  to  dry  up 
the  fluids  of  present  vitality,  that  they  may  embalm  them- 
selves as  mummies  for  posterity.  Yet  while  the  preacher 
should  strive  chiefly  to  act  in  the  living  present,  he  should 
often  draw  his  bow  at  a  venture,  and  with  unwonted  ten- 
sion, that  it  may  reach  within  the  veil  of  the  great  hereafter. 
The  sermons  that  have  cost  days  and  nights  of  mental 
wrestling  are  those  that  will  speak  with  deep-voiced  power 
to  the  future.  Though  they  pass  by  like  a  forgotten  dream, 
the  day  shall  come  when  those  great  elements  of  thought 
they  suggest,  shall  be  summoned  to  their  work.  They 
will  live  and  act  in  those  periods  of  mental  exigency, 
when  the  memories  of  the  past  hear  a  resurrection  trum- 
pet, and  come  forth  from  their  graves.  That  preacher 
who  would  be  immortal,  must  turn  off  occasionally  from 
the  efforts  which  sweep  over  the  people  the  waves  of  tem- 
porary excitement,  and  brace  himself  for  those  cool  re- 
searches and  those  mighty  labors  which  strike  so  deep  that 
not  a  ripple  is  seen  on  the  surface. 

The  preacher  who  would  be  felt  and  acknowledged  af- 
ter death  should  cultivate  individuality  of  influence.  The 
men    who  are  remembered    as  leaders  and    formers    of 


166  THE    POSTHUMOUS    POWER       ^ 

mind,  have  stood  out  with  personal  distinctness  among  the 
mass,  and  have  had  a  character  of  their  own  to  stamp  up- 
on the  world.  And  the  preacher  should  see  to  it  that  his 
own  idiosyncrasy  be  prominent  amid  the  elements  which 
he  must  derive  from  without.  He  should  cultivate  that 
portion  which  God  and  nature  have  assigned  to  him,  not 
burying  his  identity  under  the  garb  of  a  servile  imitation, 
but  ever  striving  to  be  himself.  If  he  be  but  the  patch- 
work from  admired  models,  he  covers  over  the  image 
which  his  Creator  enstamped  upon  him,  and  posterity  will 
never  distinguish  his  features  in  the  indiscriminate  mass. 
He  becomes  but  a  new  channel  for  fountains  that  have 
long  been  open,  instead  of  sending  forth  from  the  depths 
of  his  own  original  nature  a  full  current  of  good  influen- 
ces to  mankind. 

It  becomes  the  preacher  to  watch  also  with  sedulous 
jealousy  the  moral  and  religious  impressions  which  he 
leaves  upon  others.  **  If  a  minister,"  says  Dr.  Scott,  **  go 
to  the  verge  of  a  precipice,  his  people  will  be  sure  to  go 
over."  The  corrupt  doctrine,  the  impure  example  will 
be  working  its  silent  work,  long  after  the  hand  that  start- 
ed it  has  crumbled  into  dust.  There  is  a  certain  disease 
which  seems  to  stay  its  progress  after  it  has  destroyed  the 
life  of  its  victims,  so  that  those  who  look  into  their  coffins 
for  months  after  they  are  buried  will  find  the  dead  in  the 
freshness  of  their  first  entombment.  Sometimes  a  whole 
family  will  follow  each  other  with  strange  rapidity  into 
the  embraces  of  this  wasting  foe,  and  there  is  a  vulgar 
but  terrible  tradition,  that  the  dead  sustain  the  appearance 
of  vitality  by  preying  upon  the  life  of  surviving  friends. 
The  dead  one  comes  in  to  touch  with  skinny  fingers  the 
food  they  eat,  to  taint  with  corrupted  lungs  the  air  they 
breathe,  to  press  them  in  a  close  embrace,  till  they  are 
won  to  his  own  ghastly  fellowship.  And  just  such 
is  the  power  of  a  diseased  influence  from  the  pulpit.     It 


OP    THE    PULPIT.  167 

must  live  long  after  the  preacher  is  dead.  It  must  stalk 
with  fearful  contagion  through  the  paths  of  his  corrupting 
walk.  It  must  brood  as  with  raven-wing  over  the  altar 
where  he  proclaimed  his  pestilent  doctrines.  It  must 
gather  its  victims  from  the  lambs  of  his  own  flock,  and 
poison  the  famished  ones  that  cried  at  his  table  for  food. 
Sometimes  it  may  fix  its  viper-fangs  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  community  and  reduce  the  whole  region  to  the 
loathsomenesss  of  death. 

Finally,  the  preacher  should  cultivate  a  habit  of  living 
above,  and  independently  of  the  bondage  of  time,  or  death. 
**We  cannot  deceive  God  and  nature,"  says  an  old  writer, 
**  for  a  coffin  is  a  coffin,  though  it  be  covered  with  a  pom- 
pous veil ;  and  the  minutes  of  our  time  strike  on,  and  are 
counted  by  angels,  till  the  period  comes,  which  must  give 
warning  to  all  the  neighbors  that  thou  art  dead.  And  if 
our  death  can  be  put  off  a  little  longer,  what  advantage 
can  it  be  in  the  accounts  of  nature  and  felicity.  They 
that  three  thousand  years  agone  died  unwillingly,  and 
stopped  death  two  days  or  staid  it  a  week — what  is  their 
gain — where  is  that  week  1  "  And  the  preacher  who 
casts  his  eye  far  down  the  lapse  of  years,  into  the  very 
bosom  of  that  eternity  where  time  shall  almost  be  forgot- 
ten— such  a  one  will  make  his  life  a  life,  short  though  it 
be,  and  will  count  its  days  by  labors,  and  its  years  by 
fruits.  In  that  great  harvest,  the  question  asked  shall 
be,  not  hoio  long,  but  how  much.  We  shall  all  be  there — 
these  venerable  laborers  from  the  vineyard,  and  those 
who  go  down  to  their  graves  youthful  and  strong.  The 
differences  of  age  and  station  shall  then  be  forgotten, 
when  each  shall  have  placed  in  his  hand  and  before  his 
eye  that  golden  chain  which  connects  him  with  the  whole 
brotherhood  of  being.  And  there  shall  be  the  long  line 
of  our  spiritual  descendants,  like  jewels  that  pave  the 
eternal  vista.     Though  they  stand  not  by  our  death-beds, 


168  THE    DRAMATIC    ELEMENT 

like  those  old  philosophers,  to  inhale  our  spirits,  we  shall 
feel  our  own  warm  breath  coming  back  upon  us,  and 
shall  discern  our  own  lineaments  as  in  a  mirror.  Though 
they  seek  not  in  the  spirit  of  that  ancient  affection,  to 
place  their  burial-urns  close  to  ours,  or  to  mingle  their 
ashes  with  our  own,  long  before  deposited,  they  shall 
come  at  last  to  lie  down  with  us  in  our  joy  or  our  wo. 


THE  DRA.MATIC  ELEMENT  IN  PULPIT  ORATORY. 

The  earliest  modern  attempt  to  make  the  Drama  a 
vehicle  of  spiritual  instruction,  was  rather  amusing  than 
successful.  As  was  its  origin  in  classic  Greece,  so  was 
its  revival  in  catholic  Europe  most  intimately  connected 
with  religion.  The  monks  of  the  dark  ages,  unable  to 
render  attractive  the  simple  truths  of  the  Bible,  endeav- 
ored to  set  forth  its  events  and  doctrines  by  scenic  repre- 
sentation. But  the  stupidity  of  both  teacher  and  pupil 
made  way  for  barbarous  anachronisms  in  these  sacred 
mysteries.  The  motley  stage-group  would  at  one  time 
bring  together  in  strange  commingling,  the  Saviour  of 
the  world,  the  ass  of  Balaam,  and  the  poet  Virgil  talking 
in  rhyme.  Another  catastrophe  would  present  the  fig- 
ures of  our  first  parents  arrayed  with  the  implements  of 
modern  industry — Adam  with  spade  and  plough,  and  his 
frail  consort  at  her  spinning-wheel.  "  I  have  myself," 
says  Coleridge,  "  a  piece  of  this  kind  on  the  education  of 
Eve's  children,  in  which  after  the  fall  and  repentance  of 
Adam,  the  offended  Maker  condescends  to  visit  them  and 


IN    PULPIT    ORATORY. 


m 


to  catechise  the  children,  who  with  a  noble  contempt  of 
chronology  are  all  brought  together  from  Adam  to  Noah. 
The  good  children  say  the  ten  commandments,  the  apos- 
tle's creed,  and  the  Lord's  prayer  ;  but  Cain,  after  he  had 
received  a  box  on  the  ear  for  not  taking  off  his  hat,  and 
afterward  offering  his  left  hand,  is  tempted  by  the  devil 
so  to  blunder  in  the  Lord's  prayer  as  to  reverse  the  peti- 
tion and  say  it  backward." 

And  yet  there  is  a  dramatic  exhibition  of  truth  very 
different  from  the  measured  tread  of  the  buskin,  or  the 
fiummery  of  modern  theatricals.  The  stage  has  become 
so  corrupt  that  it  has  degraded  the  very  taste  and  spirit 
on  which  it  is  founded.  We  speak  of  the  dramatic  ele- 
ment such  as  it  exists  in  true  naturalness  and  dignity 
within  the  soul  of  man,  and  such  as  even  Inspiration  has 
employed  to  arouse  attention  to  its  solemn  themes.  The 
Old  Testament  contains  whole  books,  which  are  emi- 
nently dramatic  both  in  their  structure  and  style.  The 
exquisite  poetry  of  Solomon's  Song  takes  the  form  of 
almost  constant  dialogue  between  the  various  individuals 
of  the  nuptial  group,  while  the  company  of  virgins,  aa 
the  scholar  cannot  fail  to  notice,  is  like  the  chorus  of  the 
Grecian  Tragedy.  The  poem  of  Job,  not  alone  in  the 
distinctness  of  its  characters,  but  in  the  varied  interest  of 
its  scenes  and  the  deep  and  startling  power  of  its  descrip- 
tions, may  lay  claim  to  the  dramatic  sisterhood.  Even 
David  often  combines  the  drama  with  the  ode,  and  we 
lose  the  charm  of  some  of  his  richest  melodies,  unless  we 
hear  separate  and  responsive  voices,  sometimes  from  a 
single  companion  in  music  and  praise,  sometimes  from 
the  assembled  chorus  of  Israel,  again  from  the  ever-elo- 
quent depths  of  nature,  and  now  deep  and  solemn  from 
the  bosom  of  God. 

Yet  it  is  the  dramatic  spirit  rather  than  the  dramatic 
form  that  we  chiefly  notice  in  Scripture.     It  is  that  in«- 
15 


170  THE    DRAMATIC    ELEMENT 

tense,  vivid  and  picture-like  expression,  into  which  the 
poetry  of  the  Bible  in  its  flashes  of  excitement  so  often 
rises.  Such  are  those  sudden  changes  of  person  through- 
out the  Psalms,  where  the  narrator  becomes  at  once  the 
actor,  and  throws  down  the  harp  to  take  up  the  sword 
and  shield.  Such  is  the  sombre  procession  of  ghosts  that 
Isaiah  summons  to  meet  the  king  of  Babylon.  Ushered 
in  by  the  exulting  fir-trees  and  cedars  of  Lebanon,  they 
come  to  utter  taunts  over  his  unburied  corse,  to  sound 
the  noise  of  viols  in  his  ears,  and  to  spread  over  him  his 
wormy  coverlid.  The  prophets  in  fact  are  pervaded 
throughout  by  this  dramatic  spirit.  We  hear  in  them  the 
voices  of  busy  multitudes,  and  the  din  of  bustling  action. 
They  hurry  us  across  a  stage  hung  with  every  form  of 
scenery,  fields  waving  with  harvests,  or  bristling  with 
spears — nations  charioted  and  crowned  in  triumph,  or 
sitting  in  sackcloth,  solitary.  In  our  ears  are  the  shout- 
ing for  the  summer-fruits,  or  the  trumpeted  alarm  from 
the  mountains,  or  the  doleful  creatures  howling  over  the 
ruins  of  ancient  splendor,  and  sometimes  sweet  strains  of 
the  orchestral  music  of  heaven. 

Nor  in  the  more  didactic  dispensation  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament are  we  entirely  destitute  of  the  same  rhetorical 
feature.  It  is  true,  the  inspired  fishermen  tell  their  story 
with  few  of  the  graces  of  style,  and  but  little  vividness  of 
emotion.  Luke,  the  most  accomplished  historian,  has  a 
severe  classical  taste  which  confines  him  to  the  simple 
language  of  narrative  and  the  chasteness  of  Greek  mod- 
els. Paul,  though  he  occasionally  introduces  the  forms 
of  logical  dialogue,  would  seem  to  have  studied  in  the 
school  of  Demosthenes  rather  than  that  of  ^Eschylus. 
But  where  can  be  found  a  richer  variety  of  the  dramatic 
style  in  its  simple  elements,  than  in  the  parables  and  dis- 
courses of  our  Saviour,  crowded  as  they  are  with  beauty 
and  tenderness  and  solemn  sublimity,  and  appealing  to 


IN     PULPIT     OUATORY. 


»l 


the  soul  of  man  from  its  sympathy  with  life  and  action. 
And  how  fall  of  the  loftiest  dramatic  life  is  the  vision  un- 
folded at  Patmos,  where  the  spirit  of  Hebrew  Poetry  looks 
out  at  the  eye  of  the  last  of  the  prophets,  and 

"  gorgeous  tragedy, 
In  sceptred  pall,  comes  sweeping  by." 

With  what  a  magic  hand  are  we  hurried  through  the 
three  great  acts  of  this  sublime  yet  mysterious  drama — to 
watch  the  shifting  scenes  in  seals  and  vials  and  trumpets 
— each  movement  of  the  grand  plot  amid  thunderings  and 
-earthquakes — till  time  deepens  into  eternity,  and  the  toil- 
ing church  on  earth  becomes  the  praising  church  in 
heaven. 

With  these  inspired  models,  and  with  subjects  so  fitted 
to  foster  the  dramatic  spirit,  it  seems  natural  that  the 
preacher  should  exhibit  something  of  this  element  in  his 
discourses.  The  most  eloquent  pulpit-orators  have  often 
availed  themselves  of  the  dramatic  form  with  no  little 
effect.  It  may  be  observed  in  those  changes  of  scene 
and  of  character,  by  which  the  monotony  of  the  didactic 
discourse  is  relieved,  and  its  truths  stand  out  like  life. 
Particularly  do  the  historical  themes  of  the  Bible  furnish 
scope  for  this  peculiar  style.  A  sermon  founded  upon  a 
scene  or  character  in  sacred  history,  may  be  in  one  sense 
a  perfect  drama,  constructed  in  close  accordance  with  the 
most  classic  models.  The  preacher  may  trace  the  pro- 
gress of  the  story  with  a  vividness  surpassing  pictured  and 
shifting  scenery.  He  may  present  the  varied  characters, 
with  an  individuality  of  delineation,  more  striking  than  if 
they  stood  forth  in  person  upon  the  stage.  He  may  act 
out  the  catastrophe  in  glowing  language,  and  lifesome 
gesture,  as  if  himself  were  living  over  again  the  scene  he 
depicts.  He  may  intersperse  the  whole  with  homiletic 
preludes  and   interludes,  like  the  chantings  of  a  moral 


172  THE  DRAMATIC  ELEMENT 

chorus,  amid  the  stir  of  tragedy.  Or  without  attempting 
this  prolonged  exhibition  of  dramatic  skill,  he  may,  like 
Whitefield,  mingle  this  form  with  his  occasional  discourses 
— varying  the  sameness  of  direct  address  by  alternate 
scenes  of  terror  or  of  joy — causing  the  past  and  the  future 
to  come  homelike  the  living  present  to  the  soul,  and  mak- 
ing the  pulpit  speak  forth  with  the  varied  tongues  of 
angels  and  men.  But  for  this  dramatic  form  in  the  pulpit 
rare  powers  are  requisite.  It  demands  an  ability  to  dis- 
tinguish and  depict  the  nicer  shades  of  character,  or  it  is 
the  form  without  the  power  and  life.  It  should  be  char- 
acterized by  true  dignity  of  moral  picturing,  or  it  becomes 
the  false  glare  of  histrionic  tinsel.  It  should  be  pervaded 
by  spiritual  unction,  or  it  degenerates  to  buffoonery  and 
farce. 

But  it  is  the  dramatic  spirit  which  may  be  most  suc- 
cessfully and  generally  cultivated  in  pulpit  oratory.  As 
the  form  of  dialogue  may  exist  without  its  impression  of 
vividness  and  force,  so  the  dramatic  spirit  may  pervade 
the  sermon,  and  warm  and  animate  the  style,  where  there 
is  no  formal  succession  of  scenes  and  persons.  It  is  this 
characteristic  which  is  most  opposed  to  the  barren  and 
deadening  influence  of  abstract  theology — theology  which 
has  made  the  men  described,  and  the  men  addressed  from 
the  pulpit,  like  statues  lifeless  and  cold.  The  dramatic 
spirit  in  all  its  dealings  with  men,  will  turn  away  from  the 
stiff  specimen  picture  hung  up  in  the  garret,  and  in  the 
open  air  will  draw  from  the  breathing  figures  of  nature. 
And  not  content  with  re-creating  the  men  that  had  been 
turned  to  stones,  the  dramatic  preacher  will  invade  the 
very  domain  of  this  granite  Circe,  to  transform  its  stones 
to  men.  Under  his  Ithuriel  touch,  abstraction  becomes 
being.  The  words  dealed  out  to  the  people  are  truths 
passed  through  the  fire  of  life.  Ideas  stand  forth  with 
the  breathing  force  of  objective  realities.     The  lines  of 


IN    PULPIT    ORATORY,  ITS 

his  own  experience  blaze  around  his  thoughts,  and  he 
speaks  with  the  energy  of  one  who  reads  his  doctrine  in 
the  clear  pages  of  history,  or  the  burning  revelations  of 
prophecy — with  a  cloud  of  witnesses  from  the  past  and  the 
future,  gathering  near  to  confirm  with  trumpet-tone  the 
sentence.  He  presents  truth  as  it  breathes  in  the  stirring 
scenes  of  every  day  life,  or  as  it  speaks  in  some  new,  yet 
lifelike  group  which  the  imagination  may  call  up.  He  is 
so  familiar  with  men,  that  he  seems  to  dwell  within  the 
temple  of  their  very  consciousness.  Does  he  draw  from 
that  store-house  of  scenery  and  character,  the  Bible,  he 
seems  to  live  over  again  the  David,  and  the  Paul,  and  the 
Jesus.  To  him,  Christianity  is  one  walking  among  men, 
with  his  form  erect  and  his  eye  on  heaven,  and  Judgment 
is  the  hurrying  of  the  very  audience  to  whom  he  speaks, 
pale  and  trembling,  before  the  bar  of  the  great  assize. 
When  he  touches  upon  sin,  it  instantly  leaves  the  vague 
abstraction  of  depravity,  and  assumes  a  concrete  and  pal- 
pable form.  It  is  one  sin  selected  with  penetrating  eye 
from  the  long  black  catalogue.  It  is  the  very  one  that  he 
has  wrestled  with  and  wept  over  in  his  own  closet,  or 
traced  with  keen  sagacity  in  the  hearts  of  others.  It 
stands  out  as  no  cold  hypothesis,  but  a  stern  reality.  The 
subject  of  his  discourse  is  the  criminal  himself  rather 
than  the  crime.  He  unveils  the  seclusion  of  the  sinner, 
he  brings  to  view  his  parleys  with  conscience,  his  dally- 
ings  with  temptation,  he  traces  his  downward  progress 
from  step  to  step,  for  a  moment  he  follows  him  back  in 
his  weak  and  hesitating  relapse  toward  virtue,  till  again 
the  ground  crumbles  beneath  his  feet,  and  the  solemn 
dramatist  suspends  him  over  the  brink.  The  hearer  goes 
away  and  says — a  man  has  spoken  to  us — he  has  spoken 
to  me. 

No  writer  possesses  more  of  this  dramatic  skill  than 
that  Shakspeare  of  theology,  John  Bunyan.     It  has  been 
15* 


174  THE     DRAMATIC     ELEMENT 

justly  observed,  that  while  other  dramatists  make  their 
men  personifications  of  moral  qualities,  he  turns  the  ab- 
stract qualities  into  men.  What  Mr.  Honest  said  of  him- 
self, will  apply  to  all  the  characters  of  the  Pilgrim's 
Progress — **so  the  old  gentleman  blushed  and  said,  not 
Honesty  in  the  abstract,  but  Honest  is  my  name."  And 
this  is  the  secret  of  Bunyan's  power  over  us  in  childhood. 
"  All  the  world  is  a  stage,"  but  the  young  heart  is  most 
full  of  dramatic  life  and  action,  and  that  author  speaks  to 
its  condition  and  kindles  its  love,  who  clothes  upon  the 
ideal,  and  peoples  it  with  familiar  forms.  The  Christian's 
conflicts  and  joys  have  a  power  over  those  fresh  and  buoy- 
ant feelings,  which  the  sternest  tragedy  cannot  surpass. 
With  unwearied  interest  we  follow  the  Pilgrim  from  *•  the 
slough  of  despond  from  which  he  could  not  get  out  by 
reason  of  the  burden  that  was  upon  his  back,"  to  the  river 
of  death  where  Hope  says  to  him,  **  Be  of  good  cheer, 
my  brother,  I  feel  the  bottom  and  it  is  good."  There  is 
not  a  brave  picture  in  the  interpreter's  house,  or  a  goodly 
prospect  from  the  delectable  mountains,  before  which  we 
do  not  pause  and  admire.  In  our  imagination  we  affix  to 
each  character  its  appropriate  features,  and  our  idea  of 
Mr.  Feeble-mind,  Mr.  By-ends  and  Mr.  Great-heart  *'who 
was  not  afraid  of  the  lions,"  will  be  as  distinct  and  defi- 
nite as  if  they  were  our  own  traveling  companions.  So 
perfect  is  this  dramatic  power  ihat  we  become  ourselves 
in  sympathy  the  actors,  and  experience  as  we  read  along 
every  alternation  of  feeling.  We  ourselves  shudder  at 
the  hideous  pit-falls,  or  turn  pale  in  the  giant's  dungeon, 
or  tug  up  the  hill  of  difficulty,  or  *'  awake  to  sing  in  the 
chamber  whose  name  is  peace."  We  ourselves  step  for- 
ward with  shoulders  pressed  back,  and  glances  of  defi- 
ance at  those  who  bar  up  our  pathway,  and  say  with  a 
stout  voice  to  the  man  with  the  inkhorn,  "  Set  down  my 
name,  sir ;  "  and  it  seems  as   if  our  own  souls  were  rav- 


IN    PULPIT    ORATORY. 


-m 


ished  at  "  the  pleasant  voices  from  those  within,  even 
those  that  walk  on  the  top  of  the  palace."  How  Bunyan 
may  have  employed  this  element  in  his  preaching  will  ap- 
pear from  a  homely  passage,  which,  though  a  specimen 
of  the  lower  kind  of  dramatic  power,  is  singularly  adapt- 
ed to  bring  home  the  stern  realities  of  truth  to  an  illiter- 
ate audience.  ''They  that  will  have  heaven,"  he  says, 
**  must  run  for  it,  because  the  devil,  the  law,  sin,  death 
and  hell  follow  them.  There  is  never  a  poor  soul  that  is 
going  to  heaven,  but  the  devil,  the  law,  sin,  death  and 
hell  make  after  that  soul.  And  I  will  assure  you  the  devil 
is  nimble,  he  can  run  apace,  he  is  light  of  foot ;  he  hath 
overtaken  many  ;  he  hath  turned  up  their  heels,  and  hath 
given  them  an  everlasting  fall.  Also  the  law;  that  can 
shoot  a  great  way  ;  have  a  care  that  thou  keep  out  of  the 
reach  of  those  great  guns,  the  ten  commandments.  Hell 
also  hath  a  wide  mouth,  and  can  stretch  itself  farther  than 
you  are  aware  of  If  this  were  well  considered,  then 
thou,  as  well  as  I,  wouldst  say,  they  that  will  have  heaven 
must  run  for  it." 

The  French  pulpit  has  perhaps  been  more  distinguished 
for  the  dramatic  style  of  its  discourses  than  any  other. 
But  it  is  too  often  the  glitter  of  theatrical  show,  and  the 
aim  after  stage-effect  that  is  exhibited  by  the  preachers  of 
that  gay  people,  rather  than  the  natural  out-flowing  of 
vivid  and  life-like  emotion.  Among  the  old  divines  of 
England,  Jeremy  Taylor  has  most  availed  himself  of  the 
dramatic  element,  occasionally  in  prolonged  passages  of 
tragic  grandeur,  again  in  the  graphic  lifesomeness  of 
those  jcomparisons  in  which  all  nature  seems  endowed 
with  speech,  and  chiefly  in  that  personal  and  individual 
power  with  which  he  depicts  and  reproaches  sin.  '*  That 
soul  that  cries  to  those  rocks  to  cover  her,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  thy  perpetual  temptations,  might  have  followed 
the  Lamb   in  a  white  robe  :  and   that   poor   man   that  is 


176  THB    DRAMATIC     ELEMENT 

clothed  with  shame  and  flames  of  fire  would  have  shined 
in  glory,  but  thou  didst  force  him  to  be  partner  of  thy 
baseness." 

Among  the  metaphysical  divines  of  New  England,  that 
admirable  theologian.  Dr.  Bellamy,  was  particularly  dis- 
tinguished for  the  same  element.  We  may  see  some 
traces  of  it  in  the  fourth  of  his  profound  and  eloquent 
discourses  on  '*  the  wisdom  of  God  in  the  permission  of 
sin,"  where  in  his  own  beautiful  language,  '*  patriarchs, 
prophets,  apostles,  martyrs,  and  angels,  mixed  in  the  same 
assembly,  all  join  to  carry  on  the  conversation,  each  filled 
with  holy  delight,  while  the  ways  of  God  to  man,  and  the 
ways  of  man  to  God,  are  all  the  theme."  But  it  was 
chiefly  in  his  extemporaneous  efforts,  under  circumstances 
calculated  to  excite  and  enliven,  that  his  noble  frame  and 
sonorous  voice  seemed  to  kindle  with  the  inspiration  of 
his  soul.  The  following  graphic  account  of  the  style  and 
manner  of  Bellamy  is  from  the  pen  of  an  eye-witness, 
and  may  be  valuable  as  illustrating  the  mode  in  which 
the  sternest  theology  may  be  dramatized.  "  While  I  was 
an  undergraduate  at  New  Haven,"  says  the  historian 
Trumbull,  "the  Dr.  preached  a  lecture  for  Mr.  Bird. 
At  the  time  appointed  there  was  a  full  house.  The  Dr. 
prayed  and  sang,  then  rose  before  a  great  assembly  appa- 
rently full  of  expectation,  and  read  for  his  text — *  Cursed 
be  he  that  confirmeth  not  all  the  words  of  the  law  to  do 
them.'  The  number  and  appearance  of  the  people  ani- 
mated the  preacher,  and  he  instantly  presented  them  with 
a  view  of  the  twelve  tribes  of  Israel  assembled  on  Mt. 
Ebal  and  Mt.  Gerizim,  and  the  audience  were  made  to 
hear  the  Levites  distinctly  reading  the  curses,  and  all  the 
thousands  of  Jacob  repeating  them,  uttering  aloud  their 
approving  Amen.  Twelve  times,  says  the  Dr.,  it  goes 
round,  round,  round  all  the  camp  of  Israel.  Cursed  be 
the  man  who  committeth  this  or  the  other  iniquity.     Nay, 


IN     PULPIT    ORATORY.  -177 

round  it  goes  through  all  the  thousands  of  God's  chosen 
people — *  Cursed  is  he  that  confirmeth  not  all  the  words 
of  the  law  to  do  them ;  and  all  the  people  shall  say,  Amen.' 
Having  from  a  variety  of  views  established  the  leading 
point,  that  every  sin  deserves  eternal  death,  that  he  may 
treat  all  parties  fairly,  he  brought  the  objector  upon  the 
stage  to  remonstrate  against  the  doctrine  he  had  advanced. 
Then  Gabriel  was  brought  down  to  show  the  futility  of 
these  objections,  and  the  impious  presumption  of  making 
them  against  the  divine  law  and  government.  They  were 
clearly  answered,  and  the  opponent  was  triumphantly 
swept  from  the  stage.  The  argument  gained  strength  and 
beauty  through  the  whole  progress."  It  seemed  as  if  so 
many  new  witnesses  were  summoned  for  the  truth.  The 
stern  doctrines  of  the  gospel  assumed  a  lifesomeness  and 
a  plausibility,  which  they  could  not  possess  in  the  cold- 
ness of  abstract  detail,  and  to  each  sinner  there  seemed 
to  come  a  voice  pronouncing  upon  him  the  fearful  doom 
and  demanding  his  approving  amen. 

There  is  a  familiar  passage  in  one  of  the  sermons  of 
Tholuck,  which  is  perhaps  the  best  specimen  to  be  found 
in  any  language  of  the  higher  dramatic  power.  It  is  de- 
signed to  illustrate  the  danger  of  delay  in  religion,  and 
we  are  hurried  from  one  scene  to  another  with  a  rapidity 
which  is  equaled  only  by  the  vividness  with  which  each 
individual  picture  is  presented.  First,  we  stand  by  a 
burning  house,  and  we  follow  the  distracted  parent  as  he 
hurries  back  for  the  missing  one,  only  to  hear  the  words, 
*•  Too  latc^^  from  the  tumbling  walls.  Instantly  it  is 
night  about  us,  and  we  hear  the  tramp  of  a  courser,  as 
the  wanderer  flies  homeward  for  a  dying  father's  blessing. 
"  Too  late^^  is  the  shriek  that  pierces  his  soul  as  he 
reaches  the  dwelling  of  death.  Again  the  scene  is 
changed.  We  stand  by  a  scaflbld.  The  victim,  the  exe- 
cutioner, the  implements  of  death,  and  the  shivering  mul- 


178  THE     DRAMATIC     ELEMENT 

titude  are  around  us.  Suddenly  and  far  off  on  the  distant 
hill,  there  are  signs  of  joy.  A  low  murmur  begins  at  the 
verge  of  the  crowd,  and  like  a  wave  of  sound  seems 
speedily  to  pervade  the  whole  mass  of  being.  Pardon — 
Pardun — Pardon — but  not  till  the  guilty  head  has  fallen, 
"  Yea,"  says  the  preacher,  **  since  the  earth  has  stood, 
the  heart  of  many  a  man  has  been  fearfully  pierced 
through  by  the  cutting  words — Too  late.  But  oh,  who 
will  describe  the  lamentation  that  shall  arise,  when  at  the 
boundary  line  which  parts  time  from  eternity,  the  voice 
of  the  righteous  judge  will  cry — Too  late.  Long  have 
the  wide  gates  of  heaven  stood  open,  and  its  messengers 
have  cried.  To-day,  to-day  if  ye  will  hear  his  voice.  Man, 
man,  how  then  will  it  be  with  you,  when  once  those  gates 
with  appalling  sound  shall  be  shut  for  eternity." 

Gentlemen  of  the  Porter  Rhetorical  Society, 

On  former  occasions  like  the  present,  you  have  had 
presented  from  this  chair,  the  rules  and  principles  of 
Christian  action.  We  have  chosen  to  leave  behind  as 
our  legacy,  a  branch  of  that  great  science  which  our 
association  is  designed  to  cultivate,  persuaded  that  we 
should  become  better  preachers  if  we  analyzed  more 
closely  the  characteristics  of  pulpit-power,  and  caught 
the  spirit  of  its  illustrious  models.  Brethren,  let  these  be 
our  parting  counsels.  Walk  among  men,  as  those  who 
receive  impressions  of  life,  which  will  linger  about  you 
in  the  closet  and  study.  Read  truth  in  the  kindling  eye, 
and  the  elastic  step  of  your  brother.  Let  it  speak  out  in 
the  scenes  of  your  personal  history,  and  the  breathing 
pictures  of  the  world  you  live  in.  Talk  with  your  own 
souls  as  a  familiar  friend,  and  listen  like  David  Brainerd 
to  "  the  various  powers  and  affections  of  the  mind,  alter- 
nately whispering"  their  part  in  the  great  drama  of  your 


IN    PULPIT    ORATORY.  179 

inward  life.  Commune  with  men,  not  the  men  of  a  sin- 
gle idea,  or  the  creatures  of  some  one  profession,  but 
those  who  have  the  world  crowded  into  their  souls,  and 
life  speaking  through  their  language.  Cultivate  an  ac- 
quaintance with  the  great  past,  whether  it  open  to  you 
the  cave  of  the  *  golden-mouthed '  at  Antioch,  or  ride 
over  the  prophet's  battle-field  at  Mecca,  or  come  swelling 
op  in  organ-tones  from  the  English  cathedral.  Study  phi- 
losophically that  myriad-minded  man,  the  great  dramatist. 
Learn  theology  whether  it  burns  on  the  brow  of  Lear,  or 
laughs  under  the  coxcomb  of  his  fool.  Behold  your  own 
system  of  belief,  that  in  which  you  were  baptized  in 
infancy,  which  you  professed  before  angels  in  manhood, 
which  you  hope  to  preach  to  old  age,  behold  it  speaking 
out  in  the  unconscious  developments  of  genius,  and  value 
it  none  the  less  that  it  comes  not  from  a  catechism,  but 
from  a  play.  Chiefly  imbibe  the  dramatic  spirit  of  the 
Bible,  and  dwell  on  its  great  eternal  themes  till  your  own 
souls  are  won  to  a  true  fellowship.  Above  all,  be  your- 
selves men,  not  a  monk  peeping  out  upon  the  world 
through  the  dim  lattice  of  a  cloister  ;  not  an  owl  dismal 
and  sullen  in  the  sunshine  of  existence.  Be  a  man — 
acting,  loving,  living,  with  a  sympathy  for  souls  weighing 
upon  your  hearts,  beaming  from  your  eyes,  burning  in 
your  speech.  So  may  you  hope  to  obtain  what  a  great 
orator  has  called,  ♦'  not  eloquence  merely,  but  action,  no- 
ble, sublime,  godlike  action." 


'mi 


SERMONS 


16 


SERMON  I. 


INFLUENCE  OF  FAMILIARITY  WITH  RELIGIOUS 
TRUTH  UPON  THE  SINNER. 


A   PROPHET  IS  NOT   WITHOUT   HONOll,  SAVE   IN   HIS  OWN  COUNTRY,  AND 

IN  HIS  OWN  HOUSE.— Matthew  13  :  57. 

That  must  have  been  an  impressive  scene,  when  Jesus 
first  stood  up  to  teach  in  the  synagogue  of  his  native  city. 
Nearly  a  year  before,  he  had  left  his  kindred  to  go  up  to 
Jerusalem.  During  that  absence,  he  had  received  the 
seal  of  water  from  the  hand  of  the  Baptist,  and  witnessed 
the  descent  of  the  Heavenly  Dove  with  its  voice  of  con- 
firmation. He  had  met  Satan  in  the  wilderness,  and 
achieved  a  victory  never  before  accomplished  by  man. 
In  the  spirit  and  power  of  a  prophet,  he  had  purged  the 
temple  at  Jerusalem  of  its  impurities.  He  had  jourrieyed 
through  Samaria  dispensing  his  miraculous  favors,  and  by 
his  wisdom  and  his  eloquence  bringing  multitudes  to  the 
truth.  Allured  by  those  social  attachments  to  which  his 
heart  was  by  no  means  a  stranger,  he  comes  back  to  re- 
visit the  scenes  of  his  childhood.  He  had  left  them  a 
poor  man's  son  ;  he  returns  in  the  power  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  Pale  and  worn  with  his  spiritual  conflicts,  yet 
animated  by  the  success  of  his  past  labors,  and  enthusi- 
astic in  the  consciousness  of  his  divine  mission,  "  he 
stands  up  in  the  synagogue  for  to  read."     "  And  the  eyes 


184  FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH. 

of  all  them  that  were  in  the  house  were  fastened  on  him." 
What  now  was  the  question  with  which  this  impressive 
silence  was  broken  ?  What  could  they  say  to  rid  them- 
selves of  the  impression  of  his  short  but  thrilling  dis- 
course? "Is  not  this  Joseph's  son?"  And  supposing 
that  there  was  arrogance  in  his  pretensions,  they  thrust 
him  out  of  the  city. 

After  a  career  of  successful  benevolence,  he  appears  a 
second  time  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  early  home. 
Again  the  truth  of  his  sayings  is  pressed  upon  their 
hearts  and  consciences.  Again  they  take  refuge  from  its 
power  by  pointing  to  his  former  occupation,  and  to  his 
brothers  and  sisters  who  were  all  with  them.  Again  the 
Saviour  of  mankind  is  constrained  to  crucify  the  sympa- 
thies of  his  humanity,  and  turns  his  back  on  the  friends 
of  his  childhood  with  the  sentiment  of  the  text,  "  A 
prophet  is  not  without  honor,  save  in  his  own  country, 
and  in  his  own  house." 

What  was  the  chief  circumstance  which  contributed  to 
this  rejection  ?  No  doubt  the  envy  of  an  equal,  or  the 
contempt  of  an  inferior  may  have  had  part  in  it ;  but 
chiefly  it  was  their  familiarity  with  the  person  of  the 
prophet.  Had  a  stranger  appeared  to  them  with  these 
high  pretensions,  even  though  his  garb  had  been  humble 
and  his  mien  lowly,  he  could  not  have  been  so  contemned. 
No  doubt  the  multitude  would  have  turned  scornfully 
away  from  the  meek  one ;  but,  who  can  doubt  that  some 
expectant  mother  or  daughter  in  Israel,  some  veteran 
waiting  for  the  promises,  w^ould  have  hailed  him  as  the 
Messiah  ?  But  now,  not  one  comes  forward  to  receive 
his  benediction,  or  to  bid  him  God  speed  in  his  glorious 
enterprise.  He  was  too  well  known  to  receive  the  honor 
that  he  merited. 

Other  illustrations  of  the  principle  of  the  text  are  of 
constant  occurrence.     There  is  hardly  a  period  in  his- 


FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS   TRUTH. 


185 


lory,  or  a  family  that  does  not  testify  to  its  truth  ; — be  it 
the  discoverer  of  a  new  continent,  compelled  to  seek  pat- 
ronage from  a  foreign  court,  or  the  child  of  genius,  no- 
where less  flattered  and  less  honored  than  beneath  his 
father's  roof  The  voice  of  the  preacher,  that  is  as  music 
to  the  ears  of  a  stranger,  falls  unheeded  upon  the  slum- 
berers  of  his  own  flock  ;  and  he  whom  great  men  revere 
as  an  oracle  shall  find  many  a  familiar  to  doubt,  and  to 
scoff  at  his  counsels.  The  wonders  of  nature  also  are 
nowhere  so  little  revered  as  among  those  who  were  born 
and  nurtured  under  their  very  shadow.  Who  thinks  of 
pausing  to  wonder  at  the  precipice  which  hung  over  his 
cradle  in  infancy,  or  at  the  cataract  whose  thunder  was 
the  music  of  his  boyhood  ?  How  many  live  indifferent 
and  careless  amid  natural  splendors  that  multitudes  are 
compassing  sea  and  land  to  behold  !  Even  truth  itself — 
how  valueless  does  it  often  become  to  those  who  have 
drawn  it  in  with  their  earliest  being  !  And  it  sometimes 
seems,  as  if  Jesus  Christ  coming  to  visit  this  land  of  his 
peculiar  residence,  this  land  where  he  has  made  himself 
most  familiar  in  the  ordinances  of  his  gospel  and  in  the 
blessings  of  his  grace,  comes  to  find  that  the  Son  of  Man 
is  most  despised  **  in  the  house  of  his  friends."  It  seems 
as  if  his  Holy  Spirit,  driven  away  by  our  coldness  and 
indifference,  is  now  seeking  some  less  enlightened  regions 
for  his  abode ;  and  we  hear  the  sad  lament  as  he  departs 
from  us, — "  Verily  a  prophet  is  not  without  honor,  save 
in  his  own  country,  and  in  his  own  house." 

Let  me  invite  your  attention  then  to  an  illustration  of 
this  principle  :  Familiarity  with  religious  truths  some- 
times tends  to  make  men  insensible  of  their  value  and 
their  power.  And  I  shall  endeavor  to  point  out  some  im- 
portant truths,  which,  from  the  very  frequency  and  clear- 
ness with  which  they  are  revealed  to  us,  we  are  prone  to 
pass  by  with  coldness  and  neglect.  There  is  indeed  in. 
16* 


186  FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH. 

many  minds  a  pride  of  scepticism  which  revolts  at  a  truth 
so  plain  that  the  way-faring  man  may  comprehend  it,  and 
if  they  cannot  find  new  avenues  of  evidence,  they  prefer 
to  show  their  superiority  by  adopting  error.  But  it  is  not 
my  purpose  at  the  present  time  to  expose  this  arrogant 
unbelief,  so  much  as  the  indifference  with  which  many 
who  believe  are  prone  to  regard  the  truth. 

I.  The  effect  of  familiarity  is  illustrated  in  respect  to 
the  existence  and  providence  of  God. 

The  evidence  for  these  glorious  doctrines  is  written 
every  where.  We  see  it  in  glowing  characters  upon  the 
universe  about  us,  and  the  universe  within  us.  We  read 
it  in  the  multiplied  and  variegated  lessons  of  external 
nature,  and  on  the  clear  and  lucid  pages  of  our  own  con- 
sciousness. Every  man  has  his  own  system  of  natural 
theology,  but  with  how  many  is  it  matter  of  scientific 
rather  than  of  experimental  interest.  How  few  are  there 
who  carry  about  with  them  a  habit  of  realizing  the  Deity 
they  can  so  easily  reason  out  in  their  closets,  and  whose 
whole  lives  are  one  constant  and  glowing  treatise  on  the 
reality  of  a  God.  Every  man,  by  the  aid  of  an  anato- 
mist, can  analyze  the  mechanism  of  the  human  eye,  or 
the  human  hand,  and  study  out  the  marks  of  a  wise  and 
supreme  contriver ;  but  who  thinks  of  this  contriver  as 
picturing  each  gratification  for  the  sight,  or  regulating 
each  motion  of  the  limb  ?  And  how  many  thousand 
times  a  day  we  use  each  faculty,  and  never  think  of  the 
goodness  or  the  greatness  of  our  Father  !  Every  one 
can  admire  the  sun  by  day  and  the  stars  by  night,  or 
meditate  on  the  uniformity  of  nature,  and  the  beneficent 
arrangements  every  where  made  for  the  comfort  and  hap- 
piness of  God's  creatures.  But  who  thinks  the  more  of 
God  that  the  sun  rises  with  regularity  on  each  succeed- 
ing day,  or  that  the  seasons  come  round  in  their  turn 
bringing  their   varied   blessings.     My   brethren,   we  are 


FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH.  187 

good  theologians  in  the  closet  and  the  study,  and  over  the 
speculations  of  some  profound  philosopher  ;  but  when  we  , 
go  forth  to  breathe  the  fresh  air  and  gaze  upon  the  green 
hills,  though  the  truth  is  just  as  real  and  just  as  beautiful 
in  nature  as  it  is  in  books,  we  are  prone  to  lay  by  the  stu- 
dent ;  and  we  fail  to  look  upward.  The  very  multitude 
of  evidence  which  surrounds  us,  the  very  frequency  and 
uniformity  of  the  blessings  we  receive,  render  us  forgetful 
of  Him  who  teaches  the  lesson  and  bestows  the  gift.  We 
have  been  drinking  in  this  light,  we  have  been  nourished 
by  this  bounty,  from  the  first  dawn  of  our  being.  To  us 
Jehovah  is  indeed  "  dark  with  excessive  bright,"  veiled 
behind  the  richness  and  multiplicity  of  his  own  favors.- 
We  are  not  like  those  who  have  been  groping  for  ages  in 
darkness  or  in  blindness,  and  to  whom  suddenly  the  sun 
appears  shining  in  his  strength,  or  to  whose  cleared  vision 
are  revealed  at  once  the  beauties  of  earth  and  sky.  We 
were  not  placed  in  the  midst  of  the  universe  as  Adam 
was,  with  full  maturity  of  powers.  The  idea  of  God  does 
not  force  itself  upon  us  as  it  did  upon  him  with  instanta- 
neous, delightful,  irresistible  power.  We  have  the  same 
daylight  of  evidence,  but  it  has  come  gradually  upon  us, 
and  our  long  familiarity  has  made  us  personally  indiffer- 
ent. *'  But  if  we  entered  the  world  with  the  same  reason 
which  we  carry  with  us  to  an  opera  the  first  time  that  we 
enter  a  theatre,  and  if  the  curtain  of  the  universe  were 
to  be  rapidly  drawn  up,  struck  with  the  grandeur  of  every 
thing  which  we  saw,  and  all  the  obvious  contrivances 
exhibited,  we  should  not,"  as  even  a  French  atheist  has 
confessed,  '*  be  capable  of  refusing  our  homage  to  the 
eternal  power  which  had  prepared  for  us  such  a  spectacle. 
But  who  thinks  of  marveling  at  what  he  has  seen  for  fifty 
years  ?  What  multitudes  are  there  who,  wholly  occupied 
with  the  care  of  obtaining  subsistence,  have  no  time  for 
speculation  ;  the  rise  of  the  sun  is  only  that  which  calls 


188  FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH. 

them  to  toil,  and  the  finest  night  in  all  its  softness  is 
mute  to  them,  or  tells  them  only  that  it  is  the  hour  for 
repose." 

II.  The  same  principle  is  illustrated  in  respect  to  our 
familiarity  with  the  character  of  Jesus  Christ. 

It  is  a  most  perfect  and  delightful  embodying  of  all 
that  is  great  and  good,  which  is  furnished  to  us  in  the 
author  of  the  New  Testament  dispensation.  It  commends 
itself  to  our  highest  moral  tastes.  The  world  in  the 
brightest  periods  of  its  history  has  produced  nothing  like 
it.  The  dispensation  of  the  law  with  its  sword  of  terror 
affrighted  none  into  such  perfect  obedience.  Philosophy 
in  all  its  strugglings  after  ideal  virtue  never  gave  birth 
even  to  a  conception  so  pure  as  this.  But  now  it  comes 
to  us  not  as  a  bare  conception  ;  for  the  mind  of  man 
could  never  have  originated  such  an  idea,  and  the  wants 
of  man  demanded  the  personality  of  flesh  and  blood.  It 
is  the  Deity  himself,  no  longer  retiring  from  the  gaze  of 
men,  and  veiling  himself  in  the  mystery  of  his  own  in- 
visible and  spiritual  nature ;  no  longer  making  himself 
known  only  by  distant  and  terrible  symbols — the  flaming 
sword,  the  quaking  mountain,  and  the  voice  of  terror — 
but  coming  down  to  commune  with  men  as  a  brother,  to 
add  to  the  joy  of  the  social  circle  by  his  friendly  smile, 
and  to  sooth  the  sorrow  of  bereavement  by  weeping  at  the 
grave  of  their  loved  ones.  It  is  the  mystery  of  God  man- 
ifest in  the  flesh,  attracting  the  soul  by  its  incomprehensi- 
ble nature,  and  coming  home  to  its  affections  as  a  pro- 
vision for  its  greatest  wants.  But,  my  friends,  how  is  it 
with  us  ?  Do  we  commune  constantly  and  intimately 
with  this  fraternal  guide?  Do  we  repair  for  sympathy 
and  aid  to  this  affectionate  physician  ?  Is  the  presence 
of  Jesus  the  delight  of  our  souls,  and  do  we  find  our  own 
characters  conforming  themselves  to  his  perfect  pattern 
and  growing  into  its  likeness?     Ah  !  to   how  many  of  us 


FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH.  169 

he  comes  like  an  old   familiar  friend,  the  companion  of 
our   childhood,  ever  by  our   side,  yet  remembered  and 
loved  and  longed  for,  only  when  his  assiduities  cease  and 
his  visage  is  torn  from  us  forever.      At  how  many  of 
our  hearts  has  he  been  a  long  time   applying  for   admit- 
tance, and  we,  strange  beings  that  we  are,  are  so  familiar 
with  his  love  and  patience  and  forbearance  that  we  put 
him  off  to  a   more  convenient  season.     The  first  lessons 
we  read  are  the  story  of  his  life  ;  but  the  manger  and  the 
garden   and  the  cross  are  words  that  have  lost  their  sig- 
nificance to  us,  and  fall  upon  the  ear  like  threadbare  tales. 
We  read  of   his  untiring   labors,   and   they  awaken  no 
tribute  of  admiration.     We  read  of  the  scoffings  and  con- 
tempt, the  agony  and   the  blood,  and  they  raise  no  grieC 
We  are  daily  reaping  the  benefits  of  his  influence,  in  the 
improvement  of  society  and  the  advance  of  truth,  but  we 
seldom  think  of  tracing  back  these  moral  blessings  to  his 
instructions,  and  to  the  new  development  of  the  great  law 
of  love  in  his  example  as  well   as  his  precept.     We  have 
been  living  so  long  in  the  noonday  of  the   Christian  reve- 
lation,  that  we  think   not  of  the  darkness   which    was 
chased  away   by  its  sunrise,   and   we  are  so  satisfied  with 
the  light  without,  that  we  take  no  heed  that  the  day  dawn 
and  the  day-star  arise  in  our  hearts.     Could  some  one  of 
those   ancient  sages  who  groped   in  the  night  of  heathen- 
ism,  yet  panted   for  a  purer   illumination — could    some 
Socrates   have  caught   but  a  glimpse  of  the  approaching 
morning,  with  what  joy  would   he   have  hailed  it.     How 
humbly  would   he  have   sat  at  the   feet  of  the  dimly  re- 
vealed  Teacher.      With    what    freshness    and    subduing 
power  would  the  first  obscure  hints  of  the  truth  as  it  is  in 
Jesus  have  come  home  to  his  soul.     What  a  bright  image 
of  the  Great  Master  would  he   have  exhibited  in  his  con- 
duct, what  an   untiring  devotion  in   his  life.     With  him 
the  sentiment,  '  for  me  to  live  is  Christ,'  would  have  been 


190  FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH. 

no  cold  and  forced  duty,  but  a  living  and  fondly  cherished 
principle ;  and  the  cross  which  we  bear  so  sluggishly 
through  gardens  of  ease,  would  have  been  a  luxury  to  him 
even  up  the  mountain  where  his  Lord  was  crucified. 

III.  The  effect  of  familiarity  is  further  illustrated  in 
respect  to  the  atonement  by  the  blood  of  the  Redeemer. 

There  is  a  pathos  and  a  power  in  those  words, '  redemp- 
tion by  the  blood  of  Jesus,'  which  are  lost  by  our  frequent 
and  heartless  repetition.  They  reveal  a  mystery  which 
even  "  the  angels  have  desired  to  look  into  ;  "  but  from 
which  we  turn  coldly  and  listlessly  away.  They  come 
home  to  the  human  bosom  in  its  want,  and  its  wretched- 
ness, with  a  directness  and  a  power  which  they  seldom 
have  to  us  who  have  always  had  that  light  to  keep  us  from 
despair  ;  and  because  we  have  never  despaired,  we  fail  to 
do  homage  to  the  cross.  The  case  of  a  poor  heathen  in 
India  will  illustrate  somewhat  the  native  power  and  adap- 
tation of  this  doctrine.  He  had  been  a  sinner,  and  as  all 
mankind  are  sometimes  conscious  of  guilt,  he  felt  wretch- 
ed for  his  sin.  There  was  a  load  on  his  spirit,  when 
something  said  to  him,  there  must  be  blood  to  wash  the 
stain  away.  He  found  this  truth  proclaimed  in  the  reli- 
gious system  in  which  he  had  been  educated,  and  there 
was  a  response  in  his  moral  nature  to  the  fitness  of  the 
doctrine,  "Without  the  shedding  of  blood  there  is  no 
remission."  He  thought  he  would  make  a  sacrifice  of 
himself,  and  he  pierced  his  sandals  with  sharp  iron  nails, 
and  walked  for  miles  with  the  blood  streaming  from  his 
feet.  Still  the  burden  tarried  on  his  soul.  There  was 
no  remission  by  that  blood.  The  load  of  guilt  pressed 
as  heavily  as  before.  There  was  a  void  somewhere,  he 
knew  not  exactly  what ;  but  he  wanted  something  like  a 
hand  leading  him  up  to  the  Great  Spirit  whom  he  had  of- 
fended— an  avenue  that  he  saw  not  now  between  the  sin- 
offering  and  heaven.     Faint  and  exhausted  by  his  penance. 


FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH.  191 

he  drew  near  to  a  group  who  had  gathered  round  a  mis- 
sionary from  some  Christian  land.  He  was  too  weak  and 
too  wretched  to  notice  much  that  was  going  on  ;  but  sud- 
denly the  words  of  the  speaker  arrested  his  attention — 
-*•  The  blood  of  Jesus  Christ,  his  Son,  cleanseth  us  from 
all  sin."  He  paused  and  leaned  upon  his  staff.  His  face 
lighted  up  with  animation.  The  great  demand  of  his  soul 
was  met.  "  This  is  just  what  I  want,  just  what  I  want,"  he 
cried,  and  threw  away  his  implements  of  self-torture,  and 
laid  down  with  cheerful  alacrity  his  burden  _at  the  cross. 
But  to  us,  my  brethren,  this  truth  comes  not  after  we 
have  exhausted  ourselves  in  the  search  for  peace.  To  us 
this  Saviour  comes  not  to  pluck  out  the  sword  with  which 
we  have  pierced  our  own  bodies.  And  we  have  been  so 
long  acquainted  with  the  plan  of  salvation,  that  we  do  not 
sympathize  with  the  strong  emotion  of  an  apostle  when 
he  exclaims,  "  Thanks  be  unto  God  for  his  unspeakable 
gift!" 

Not  many  years  ago,  in  a  destitute  portion  of  our  own 
land,  there  lived  a  man  sunk  almost  to  the  degradation  of 
heathenism.  In  early  life  he  had  lived  within  the  sound 
of  the  gospel,  and  heard  something  of  its  edifying  doc- 
trines, but  they  had  quite  faded  from  his  memory.  A 
long  life  spent  in  brutalizing  ignorance  and  enervating 
dissipation,  and  among  those  who  if  they  knew,  never 
spoke  to  him,  of  Jesus,  had  completely  eradicated  every 
religious  impression  from  his  mind.  He  passed  years 
groveling  in  this  spiritual  stupidity,  without  one  thought 
of  God.  One  day  as  he  was  at  work  in  his  field,  suddenly 
and  mysteriously,  by  one  of  those  unaccountable  pro- 
cesses by  which  the  Holy  Spirit  urges  conviction  upon 
the  soul,  the  thought  rushed  upon  him,  I  am  a  sinner, 
and  a  sinner  against  God.  He  tried  to  banish  it,  but  it 
staid  there  still.  He  left  his  work,  and  sat  down  to  give 
iiimself  up  to  the  overpowering  emotion.     Every  moment 


192  FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH. 

the  picture  grew  deeper  and  blacker  on  the  eye  of  his 
soul.  The  acts  of  his  past  life  came  rushing  in  one  after 
one,  with  fearful  rapidity,  till  the  events  of  years  were 
concentrated  into  a  moment,  and  that  moment  one  of 
intense  and  burning  consciousness  of  guilt.  He  went 
home,  but  the  conviction  followed  him  there.  At  first 
the  single  idea  of  sin  was  so  intense  that  it  excluded 
every  other  thought,  even  its  eternal  consequences.  By 
and  by  the  fear  and  expectation  of  punishment  took  pos- 
session of  his  soul.  Distracted  with  the  sense  of  his  own 
pollution,  haunted  by  the  angry  eye  of  God,  bowed  down 
with  a  foreboding  of  some  dreadful  avenging  stroke,  he 
wandered  about  not  knowing  whither  to  repair  for  relief. 
The  dim  light  of  his  early  education  did  not  shine  upon 
him  with  its  former  vividness.  No  Bible  was  near  to 
teach  him  of  the  way  of  salvation.  At  length,  in  part 
exhausted  by  the  over-working  of  his  nature,  in  part 
yielding  to  his  new  views  of  truth,  he  settled  down  into 
something  like  submission  to  the  will  of  God.  He  had 
become  a  changed  man  ;  he  communed  with  his  Maker  ; 
he  was  animated  by  high  purposes  of  action.  Yet  still 
he  felt  no  peace.  He  looked  upon  himself  as  one  doomed 
to  destruction  ;  but  he  felt  his  deserts,  and  never  mur- 
mured. He  was  solemn  as  the  grave.  No  one  ever  saw 
a  smile  upon  his  countenance.  Day  by  day  he  walked  to 
his  field  with  the  burden  upon  his  soul,  but  still  he  felt 
that  God  was  just,  and  he  admired  that  justice.  He  was 
ready  to  bless  the  hand  that  was  lifted  for  his  destruction. 
Months  elapsed,  and  the  minister  of  Jesus  passed  that 
way.  He  heard  the  plan  of  redemption  unfolded  ;  he 
read  in  the  New  Testament  of  the  sufferings  of  Christ, 
and  the  economy  of  grace.  How  beautiful  was  its  fit- 
ness !  He  wept,  he  wondered,  he  adored.  He  thought 
of  the  atonement,  not  as  a  doctrine  in  theology  to  be  can- 
vassed and  discussed,  but  as  a  matter  of  personal  interest 


FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUT^.  193 

and  experience.  The  agony  and  the  blood  seemed  con- 
centrated on  him  as  its  object.  Christ  died  for  me,  was 
the  burden  of  his  song  through  life.  Christ  died  for 
me,  were  the  words  which  trembled  on  his  lips  when  he 
died.  My  brethren,  we  give  a  prominence  to  this  doc- 
trine of  Christ  crucified  in  our  preaching  and  our  faith ; 
we  assent  to  it  as  the  great  source  of  our  hope ;  but  who 
of  us  dwells  upon  it  with  such  rapture  as  it  merits?  who 
of  us  stirs  himself  to  repay  this  matchless,  this  amazing 
debt? 

IV.  My  last  illustration  of  the  indifference  produced 
by  familiarity  is  in  respect  to  the  doctrine  of  future  retri- 
bution. 

Suppose  w'e  had  no  knowledge  of  eternity  ;  suppose 
that  Christ  had  never  come  to  *'  bring  immortality  to 
light  ;  "  suppose  moreover  that  every  trace  of  this  glori- 
ous doctrine  were  blotted  out  from  the  nature  of  man  ; 
that  he  should  look  within,  and  read  no  prophetic  indica- 
tions in  the  desires  and  aspirings  of  his  soul ;  that  he 
should  stand  by  the  bedside  of  the  dying,  and  no  enkin- 
dling eye,  no  gushing  eloquence,  no  rapt  vision  of  the 
prostrate  one  should  speak  of  the  life  of  the  spirit  begun 
anew,  rather  than  ended  forever ;  that  he  should  go  to 
weep  at  the  grave,  and  the  last  sight  should  be  the  ghast- 
liness  of  death,  and  the  last  sound  should  be  the  earth 
crumbling  harshly  and  heavily  upon  the  coffin  ;  that  he 
should  go  away  with  that  sight  and  that  sound  to  haunt 
him  through  life ;  that  in  the  one,  he  should  read  the 
monotonous  lesson  of  coldness  and  silence  and  corrup- 
tion ;  in  the  other,  he  should  hear  the  hollow  murmur, 
"Death  is  an  eternal  sleep;" — no  blessed  hopes  of  re- 
union with  the  departed,  no  sweet  consciousness  of  their 
still  hovering  about  his  pathway,  nothing  to  check  his 
own  rush  toward  that  oblivious  gulf,  nothing  to  cheer  the 
prospect  of  eternal  gloom  ;-— suppose  that  now  in  the  midst 
17 


194  FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH. 

of  this  ignorance  and  darkness  a  voice  was  heard  in  heaven 
proclaiming,  "  The  dead  shall  live !  "  "  The  dead  shall 
live  !  "  Those  words  penetrate  every  enr  :  they  vibrate 
on  every  soul,  startling  the  stupid,  comforting  the  cheer- 
less, and  lighting  up  the  expiring  eye  with  the  brilliancy 
of  a  new  life.  But  soon  a  doubt  clouds  the  new  begotten 
joy.  The  dead  shall  live,  but  how  long  ?  Are  they  des- 
tined to  another  brief  career  like  this,  and  yet  another 
and  another,  each  to  be  ended  by  the  same  destroyer,  till 
the  last  link  in  the  chain  of  light  goes  out  in  darkness. 
The  dead  shall  live,  but  how  long?  And  in  the  midst  of 
heaven,  in  characters  of  living  light,  and  so  that  every 
eye  can  see  it,  is  written  that  word— ;/bre<;er.  Glorious 
thought !  This  spark  is  quenchless.  Forever  is  now  the 
word  that  trembles  on  every  tongue,  and  rings  through 
the  universe.  Instantly  how  changed  becomes  the  aspect 
of  the  world  !  How  new  and  godlike  the  appearance  of 
the  creation  in  the  light  it  borrows  from  eternity,  in  the 
dignity  it  assumes  as  the  threshhold  of  an  existence 
which  shall  never  terminate  !  And  how  noble  becomes 
the  bearing  of  man  !  Yesterday  the  creature  of  a  mo- 
ment—to-day, the  heir  of  immortality.  But  the  revelation 
is  not  yet  completed.  The  dead  shall  live  forever  ;  but 
how  ?  What  is  to  be  the  character  of  that  eternity,  what 
its  relation  ]  Does  it  open  upon  us  scenes  of  joy  or  of 
wo?  Does  it  divide  between  the  happy  and  the  miserable 
at  hap-hazard,  or  is  there  some  great  law  of  distinction  ? 
The  dead  shall  live  forever,  but  hoio?  And  a  still  small 
voice  from  the  depths  of  the  soul  comes  up  with  the 
tidings  of  retribution  ;  and  the  Spirit  of  the  living  God 
confirms  the  decision  in  the  fearful  sentence — "  He  that 
is  filthy,  let  him  be  filthy  still ;  and  he  that  is  holy,  let 
him  be  holy  still."  Oh  !  my  friends,  think  you  that  such 
a  universe  would  be  full  of  cold  and  inactive  beings  ? 
Would  they  give  themselves  any  rest  until  they  had  com- 


FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH.  195 

plied  with  the  conditions  of  salvation  ?  Would  there  not 
be  hurrying  to  and  fro,  and  anxious  countenances  of 
those  who  would  save  themselves,  or  pluck  their  fellow- 
sinners  as  brands  from  the  burning  ?  But,  as  for  us,  we 
do  not  live  in  such  a  community.  These  are  no  new 
truths  to  us.  Old  are  they  as  the  Bible,  familiar  as  the 
first  elements  of  knowledge — and  we  do  not  feel  them. 
The  Christian  knows  that  he  is  an  heir  of  heaven  ;  but 
he  does  not  walk  erect  as  if  he  were  conscious  of  it. 
The  sinnerL  knows  that  he  is  a  candidate  for  hell ;  but 
he  never  looks  aghast  at  its  horrors.  And  we,  my 
brethren,  surrounded  by  the  perishing — comes  their  wail 
to  us  from  the  distance  of  heathenism,  or  see  we  them 
hurrying  to  perdition  from  our  own  families  and  neigh- 
borhood— can  scarcely  lift  a  finger  to  hold  them  back  from 
their  doom.  A  few  cold  prayers,  a  few  heartless  efforts,' 
instead  of  the  zeal  and  the  agony  of  those  who  look  into 
the  hole  of  the  pit  from  which  themselves  have  been 
digged. 

These  illustrations  might  be  indefinitely  multiplied. 
The  principle  of  our  discourse  would  be  found  true  in 
respect  to  almost  all  the  more  important  and  familiar 
doctrines  of  our  religion.  It  is  verified  also  in  our  most 
common  religious  privileges.  We  often  need  a  tempo- 
rary seclusion  from  the  ordinances  of  the  gospel,  in  order 
to  impress  us  with  their  value.  It  is  ''  by  the  rivers  of 
Babylon  that  we  sit  down  and  weep  while  we  remember 
Zion."  To  the  traveler  long  absent  in  distant  climes 
there  is  an  unwonted  melody  in  the  Sabbath-bells  of  his 
native  land.  To  the  son  just  returned  from  his  wander- 
ings to  the  paternal  roof,  the  family  altar  assumes  a 
beauty  and  a  dignity  he  can  no  longer  despise ;  and  the 
voice  of  the  old  man  at  prayer  has  a  solemn  eloquence 
that  comes  home  to  the  heart.  And  you,  my  brother, 
when  xjisease  or  affliction  have  made  you   a  long  exile 


196  FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH. 

from  the  public  worship  of  God,  with  what  delight  do  yon 
repair  to  his  temple  !  With  David  you  sing,  "  how  amia- 
ble are  thy  tabernacles/'  as  you  come  up  from  the  soli- 
tude wliere  you  have  panted  and  fainted  for  the  courts  of 
the  Lord.  Beautiful  indeed  to  you  are  the  feet  of  them 
that  publish  glad  tiding^,  and  the  walls  of  Jerusalem  and 
the  gates  of  Zion  you  prefer  above  all  the  dwellings  of 
Jacob. 

In  view  of  this  subject  I  remark, 

First,  That  truth  is  just  as  real  and  as  certain  as  if  we 
were  not  insensible  to  it. 

If  the  principle  of  the  discourse  be  correct,  if  our 
familiarity  with  religious  truths  has  often  a  tendency  to 
make  us  look  coldly  upon  them,  it  must  follow,  that  our 
degree  of  appreciation  is  no  measure  of  their  value.  It 
is  just  as  true,  that  God  is  every  where  about  us,  always 
mindful  of  our  wants,  though  we  never  think  of  him.  It 
is  just  a.s  true,  that  Christ  comes  to  us  by  the  bright  les- 
sons of  his  example  and  the  melting  doctrines  of  his 
death,  though  we  turn  our  backs  alike  on  the  manger  and 
the  cross.  It  is  just  as  true,  that  we  are  pressing  onward 
to  eternity,  though  we  grasp  after  present  pleasure,  and 
think  not  of  the  future.  Truth  is  perfect  and  immutable 
amid  all  the  weakness  and  changes  of  man.  God  is  not 
indifferent  when  he  finds  his  paternal  love  slighted  and 
despised.  Christ  is  not  unaffected  when  we  turn  coldly 
away  from  his  tender  entreaties,  though  he  come  repeat- 
edly with  the  expostulation,  *'  How  often  would  I — but  ye 
would  not."  And  destruction  is  sure  to  those  who  per- 
severe in  sin  ;  though  they  go  to  their  doom  like  a  blind 
man  hurrying  to  a  precipice,  or  a  drunkard  dancing 
among  pitfalls. 

Secondly,  The  subject  teaches  us  the  imperfection  of 
our  present  state,  and  the  way  to  overcome  it. 

We  are  so  debased  by  the  power  of  sin,  so  groveling  in 


FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH.  197 

our  moral  tastes,  so  limited  in  our  views,  so  short-lived  in 
our  emotions,  and  so  easily  exhausted  by  their  intensity, 
that  the  most  beautiful  objects  soon  lose  their  beauty  to 
us.  Truth  seems  to  partake  of  the  infirmities  of  our 
poor  decaying  bodies.  But  it  is  not  so  in  heaven.  There 
the  soul  never  tires  in  the  thought  of  God,  however  inti- 
mate may  be  his  manifestations.  There  the  secret  of 
redemption  is  perfectly  revealed,  but  it  has  an  interest 
and  a  power  ever  fresh  ;  and  the  choir  of  heaven  never 
grow  weary  or  stupid,  as  they  cease  not  day  or  night  their 
rapturous  hallelujahs  to  the  Lamb.  The  great  reason  is 
that  there,  love  is  more  perfect.  And  those  who  on  earth 
approach  the  nearest  to  the  spirit  of  heaven,  who  are 
most  in  love  with  the  truth,  are  best  able  to  break  away 
from  this  dulness  and  indifference.  Do  you  suppose  that 
the  true  poet  ever  becomes  indifferent  to  the  beauties  of 
nature  because  of  their  familiarity  ?  No  !  he  loves  them 
so  well,  that  they  burst  upon  his  vision  with  new  glory 
every  day.  Suppose  you  that  the  mother  of  Jesus  turned 
coldly  away  from  him  when  he  came  to  preach  in  the 
neighborhood  of  his  home?  Not  so.  Others  despised 
him  because  they  knew  him  so  well  ;  but  she  who  knew 
him  better  than  all,  for  the  love  that  she  bore  him  as  her 
son  and  her  Saviour,  no  doubt  received  him  to  her  bosom 
with  fresh  tenderness,  and  pondered  his  sayings  in  her 
heart.  And  so  the  man  who  loves  God  as  he  should  love 
him,  can  neither  walk  abroad  nor  look  inward,  without  a 
delightful  and  perpetual  consciousness  of  his  presence 
and  goodness.  He  to  whom  the  Redeemer  is  indeed 
**  the  chief  among  ten  thousands,"  never  becomes  wearied 
with  the  oft-heard  name,  or  cold  towards  the  ever-present 
brother.  Rather  pants  he  for  a  more  intimate  commun- 
ion. The  language  of  his  soul  is,  "  Make  haste,  my 
beloved,  and  be  thou  like  to  a  roe,  or  to  a  young  hart 
upon  the  mountains  of  spices."  "  Even  so,  come  Lord 
17* 


198  FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH. 

Jesus,  come  quickly."  If  the  sinner  would  break  away 
from  the  stupidity  he  feels  in  the  midst  of  light,  he  must 
learn  to  love  that  light.  If  the  Christian  would  wake 
from  his  lethargy  and  have  an  abiding  sense  of  the  reality 
and  glory  of  truth,  he  must  cwltivate  a  greater  love  for 
it;  he  must  meditate  upon  it  till  he  discovers  new  grace 
in  its  proportions,  new  life. in  its  lineaments,  new  loveli- 
ness in  its  beauty — until  it  becomes  in  his  soul  that  living 
principle,  which  is  as  exhaustless  in  its  nature,  as  it  is 
glorious  in  the  action  to  which  it  prompts. 

Thirdly,  The  subject  teaches  us  that  men,  if  saved  at 
all,  are  saved  not  because  they  have  been  furnished  with 
Christian  privileges,  but  because  th'ey  have  made  a  right 
use  of  them. 

There  are  many  who  live,  as  if  they  imagined  men 
could  not  go  down  to  perdition  from  under  the  refining 
influences  of  the  gospel.  But  to  such  the  subject  gives 
a  fearful  lesson  of  the  tendency  of  these  very  influences 
if  they  are  not  rightly  improved,  to  harden  the  heart  and 
ripen  it  for  destruction.  If  their  doom  be  terrible  who 
have  provoked  swift  ruin  upon  themselves  by  heaven- 
daring  crimes,  how  much  more  dreadful  is  the  wo  pro- 
nounced by  our  Saviour  against  such  as  having  been 
*'  exalted  to  heaven  are  thrust  down  to  hell."  My  fellow 
sinner,  when  you  stand  at  the  bar  of  judgment,  and  the 
books  are  opened,  and  the  sentence  is  about  to  be  pro- 
nounced against  you,  do  not  think  of  saying  to  the  Judge, 
"  I  know  thee  well.  I  was  a  member  of  the  community 
thou  didst  so  often  visit.  Thou  hast  taught  in  our  streets. 
From  my  earliest  childhood  I  learned  by  heart  the  story 
of  thy  life  and  sufferings.  And  every  Sabbath,  thy  am- 
bassadors warned  me  of  judgment  and  eternity."  Then 
shall  the  Judge  answer  and  say,  "  Depart  from  me,  I 
never  knew  you.  The  doctrines  of  my  gospel  fit  not 
those  for  heaven,  who  know  them  so  well,  that  they  never 


FAMILIARITY    WITH    RELIGIOUS    TRUTH.  199 

fed  them.  Your  voice  would  mingle  feebly  with  the 
praises  of  the  blood-bought  band.  If  any  sinner  is  to  be 
pardoned  at  this  the  eleventh  hour  of  the  universe,  let  it 
rather  be  some  poor  soul  who  comes  from  the  depths  of 
ignorance  and  gloom,  and  who  will  know  how  to  value 
the  light  and  blessedness  of  heaven." 

Finally,  while  this  familiarity  with  religious  truth  may 
render  the  impenitent  on  earth  indifferent  to  its  power, 
there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  familiarity  with  suffering 
will  at  all  diminish  the  agony  of  their  disembodied  spirits. 
It  is  indeed  the  insufferable  blaze  of  truth  that  constitutes 
the  chief  misery  of  the  lost,  but  such  as  it  sometimes  for 
a  moment  bursts  upon  their  distracted  vision  in  this  life, 
such  will  it  be  with  ever  increasing  vividness  and  in- 
tensity when  their  souls  break  away  from  these  imperfect 
frames.  The  naked  spirit  knows  no  reaction,  and  the 
sense  of  God's  wrath  never  becomes  old.  My  fellow- 
sinner,  when  you  observe  in  this  life,  the  nature  of  sick- 
ness and  suffering  to  destroy  their  own  power,  when  jou 
see  the  diseased  limb  losing  its  sensitiveness,  or  the  long 
prostrate  invalid  becoming  reconciled  to  his  lot,  think  not 
that  it  will  be  so  with  you.  It  is  written  upon  your  own 
immortal  nature,  as  well  as  upon  the  pages  of  God's 
word,  that  '*  the  worm  dieth  not,  and  the  fire  is  not 
quenched." 


NOTE. 

The  ])receding  discoui-se  was  the  first  which  Mr.  Homer  wrote. 
It  was  preached  at  South  Berwick,  May  3,  1840  ;  afterwards  at 
Danvers,  Mass. 


SERMON  II. 


THE  SAINTS  IN  HEAVEN  SUPERIOR  TO  THE  ANGELS. 


KNOW  YE  NOT  THAT  WE  SHALL  JUDGE  ANGELS  ? — 1  Cor.  6  :  3. 

These  words  have  sometimes  been  thought  to  indicate 
that  the  saints  will  share  in  the  administration  of  the  gen- 
eral judgment.  Such  an  idea  however  is  not  authorized 
either  by  reason  or  revelation,  and  it  is  highly  improbable 
that  the  redeemed  will  turn  away  from  their  own  award 
of  justice,  to  pass  sentence  on  '*  the  angels  who  kept  not 
their  first  estate."  There  is  a  mode  of  explaining  the 
passage  more  consonant  with  the  spirit  and  the  idioms  of 
Scripture.  The  language  of  the  Bible  often  derives  its 
significance  from  some  single  feature  of  analogy.  The 
metaphors  of  animate  and  inanimate  creation  with  regard 
to  God  and  his  people  are  not  to  be  pushed  to  the  extent 
of  their  literal  meaning.  When  Jehovah  is  called  a  rock, 
or  his  people  the  sheep  of  his  pasture,  only  a  single  view 
of  their  character  and  relation  may  be  presented.  And 
so  is  it  in  the  terms  derived  from  civil  and  ecclesiastical 
polity.  It  is  not  intended  to  describe  an  office  precisely 
similar  to  that  in  church  or  state,  but  only  a  condition 
marked  by  some  similar  qualities.  When  Christians  are 
spoken  of  as  kings  and  priests,  it  is  not  meant  that  they 
wear  a  crown   or   minister  at  an  altar ;  that  they  sway  a 


SUPERIORITY  OF  THE  SAINTS.  201 

sceptre,  or  intercede  for  the  sins  of  the  people,  but  rather 
that  in  heaven,  they  are  exalted  and  honored  like  kings 
and  priests  on  earth  Official  relation  is  not  at  all  desig- 
nated, merely  official  dignity.  In  this  way  the  office  of  a 
judge  is  most  appropriately  employed  to  image  forth  the 
same  elevation.  It  is  one  of  the  most  dignified  and  im- 
posing of  human  titles.  It  brings  before  the  mind  the 
picture  of  venerable  wisdom  upon  its  elevated  seat,  dicta- 
ting the  noblest  of  sentiments  to  the  noblest  of  pupils, 
and  receiving  the  homage  of  the  crowd.  What  more  nat- 
ural than  that  the  beings,  who  are  figuratively  decked 
with  the  sceptre  of  royal  dignity,  and  the  mitre  of  sacer- 
dotal rank,  should  put  on  also  the  vestments  of  the  judi- 
cial station.  They  receive  the  admiring  tribute  of  the 
world,  and  they  may  be  styled  the  judges  of  the  world. 
They  are  in  some  respects  more  glorious  than  the  angels 
of  God,  and  they  may  be  said  to  judge  those  angels. 
The  sentiment  then,  which  I  propose  to  illustrate  as 
taught  in  the  text,  is  this  : 

Christians  in  heaven  will,  in  some  respects,  be  superior 
to  angels. 

Our  acquaintance  with  the  angelic,  as  with  other  spir- 
itual beings,  is  exceedingly  limited.  Sufficient,  however, 
may  be  gathered  from  Scripture  to  teach  the  existence  of 
an  order  of  intelligences  in  many  respects  superior  to 
man.  They  are  represented  as  the  counselors  of  Jehovah, 
and  the  swift  ministers  to  do  his  will.  They  are  the  me- 
diators of  the  old  dispensation.  Through  them  the  Most 
High  comes  down  to  wrestle  and  to  commune  with  men. 
In  shining  hosts  they  hover  around  Mount  Sinai,  and 
crowd  the  chariots  of  God  as  the  "  fiery  law  goes  forth 
from  his  right  hand."  Sometimes  they  appear  as  minis- 
ters of  vengeance  to  smite  down  the  doomed  of  God,  and 
strike  with  awe  the  beholders.  Yet  chiefly  do  they  serve 
on  errands  of  mercy   and  love.     In   airy  columns  they 


202 


SUPERIORITY  OF    THE  SAINTS 


follow  the  tribes  of  Israel  in  their  wanderings,  and  guide 
them  to  the  land  of  promise.  They  watch  over  the  elect 
of  God  in  temporal  and  in  spiritual  peril,  "  encamping 
round  about  them  to  deliver  them."  They  gather  in 
choirs  over  the  shepherd-plains  of  Bethlehem,  rending 
the  still  air  of  evening  with  unwonted  anthems  of  praise. 
With  refreshment  and  sympathy  they  visit  Jesus  in  the 
solitude  of  his  temptation,  and  they  wipe  the  thick  drops 
from  his  brow  on  the  night  of  his  agony.  They  stand  by 
as  he  sunders  the  cerements  of  burial,  and  tell  the  news 
of  his  rising  to  those  who  are  earliest  at  his  grave.  Ar- 
rayed in  white  apparel  they  explain  on  Olivet  the  mystery 
of  his  ascension,  and  the  certainty  of  his  second  advent. 
They  shall  appear  again  to  the  gaze  of  men,  when  they 
come  in  the  retinue  of  his  judgment,  by  their  pres- 
ence to  add  to  the  imposing  spectacle,  and  assist  in  the 
services  of  the  great  day  of  account. 

For  such  offices  and  employments,  most  elevated  and 
conspicuous  must  be  their  qualities.  How  beautiful 
must  be  "  the  face  of  angels,"  radiant  with  the  lustre  of 
the  eternal  throne.  How  enlarged  must  be  "  the  wisdom 
of  angels,"  attendants  as  they  are  upon  the  council-cham- 
ber of  the  All  Wise.  How  vast  must  be  their  powers, 
when  even  "  the  winds  and  the  lightnings"  cannot  outstrip 
their  swiftness,  or  surpass  their  workmanship.  Above 
all,  how  spotless  must  be  their  purity,  looking  upon  God 
with  a  familiar  gaze  which  could  but  drive  the  sinful  to 
despair.  Yet  with  all  these  splendid  capacities,  with  all 
this  ecstasy  of  devotion,  they  must  be  strangers  to  the  joys 
of  the  redeemed.  Even  we,  my  brethren,  frail  though 
we  be,  imperfect  in  our  best  services,  groping  through 
life,  many  of  us,  on  an  almost  starless  pilgrimage;  even 
we,  the  creatures  of  a  day,  who  should  tremble  and  turn 
pale  at  the  approach  of  one  of  these  winged  messengers 
of  immortality,  are  yet  destined  to  enjoyments  of  which 


TO  THE  ANGELS.  203 

they  can  know  but  little.  There  are  lights  in  heaven  to 
be  revealed  to  our  vision  which  shine  but  dimly  upon 
their  souls.  There  are  mansions  reserved  for  us  among 
the  many  in  our  Father's  house,  which  they  cannot  enter. 
Hard  by  the  altar,  there  is  a  place  of  sweet  and  humble 
devotion  where  we  shall  love  to  linger,  but  where  the 
highest  archangel  is  too  high  to  prostrate  himself,  or  to 
cast  his  crown. 

1.  We  will  commence  our  proof  of  the  proposition 
already  laid  down,  by  remarking,  that  Christians  in  heaven 
will  be  conscious  of  great  advancement  in  their  condition 
and  character. 

There  is  a  familiar  principle  of  the  human  mind,  upon 
which  this  source  of  happiness  is  founded.  The  law  of 
progress  is  one  of  the  fixed  laws  of  our  nature ;  and  it  is 
a  most  wise  provision  that  this  progress  is  not  accidental, 
but  the  result  and  reward  of  personal  effort.  No  great 
advancement  can  be  made  without  toil  and  suffering,  and 
the  remembrance  of  the  former  pain  is  the  chief  ingredi- 
ent in  the  present  joy.  The  traveler,  who  has  gained  the 
desired  eminence,  feels  a  satisfaction  in  looking  down 
over  the  steep  and  craggy  rocks  up  which  he  has  climbed, 
and  through  the  dark  ravines  where  he  wandered  weary 
and  famishing  ;  and  it  is  a  satisfciction  which  he  could 
not  have  felt  had  an  unseen  hand  planted  his  first  existence 
on  the  spot  of  his  triumph.  There  is  pleasure  by  a  winter 
fireside,  in  the  companionship  of  loved  ones,  and  the 
shelter  of  a  thrifty  mansion ;  but  it  is  chiefly  when  the 
rugged  inmate  travels  over  again  in  fancy  his  perilous 
voyages,  and  again  in  memory  "the  storm  howls  through 
the  rigging."  We  sometimes  feel  as  if  the  horrors  of 
shipwreck  in  the  winter,  of  long  and  tedious  wrestling 
with  the  pestilence,  of  marching  front  to  front  with  death 
upon  the  battle  field,  were  more  than  compensated  by  the 
gratification  of  the  old  veteran  when   he  recounts  in  after 


204  SUPERIORITY    OP    THE    SAINTS 

years  his  tales  of  wonder,  and   the  sentiment   speaks  out 
in  his  eloquent  eye — 

^     .  "  All  Avhich  I  saw,  and  part  of  which.  I  was." 

Nor  is  this  principle  developed  merely  in  circumstances 
of  outward  superiority.  Not  only  do  the  rich  and  happy 
recur  with  satisfaction  to  the  period  of  their  poverty  and 
distress  ;  but  the  scholar  prizes  his  acquisitions  most, 
when  he  thinks  of  the  aching  brow  and  the  midnight 
study  which  secured  them,  and  hopes  most  cheeringly  for 
the  attainments  of  the  future,  when  he  thinks  of  the 
ignorance  of  the  past.  The  Christian  adores  most  grate- 
fully the  grace  of  God,  when  he  thinks  of  the  pollution 
from  which  he  has  been  snatched,  when  he  looks  back  to 
the  temptations  through  which  he  has  been  guided,  and 
the  spiritual  hazards  which  have  only  disciplined  him  for 
manliness  of  character  and  purity  of  faith. 

We  cannot  deny  that  angels  may  be  the  subjects  in 
some  measure  of  this  law  of  progress.  No  doubt  they 
have  had  a  period  of  probation,  which  may  be  now  closed, 
so  that  they  are  enjoying  the  assurance  of  complete  con- 
firmation. No  doubt  their  capacities  are  progressively 
enlarging,  so  that  they  enjoy  a  satisfaction  similar  to  ours, 
when  they  compare  the  knowledge  and  power  of  the  pres- 
ent with  the  past.  Yet  substantially  their  nature  and 
relations  and  enjoyments  must  have  continued  forever  the 
same.  No  cloud  of  misery  or  doubt  has  ever  for  a 
moment  obscured  their  vision.  No  sin  has  ever  crept  in 
to  defile  by  its  slightest  touch  their  nature.  However 
great  the  changes  in  their  condition,  they  can  never  have 
crossed  *'  the  great  gulf"  from  pain  to  bliss,  from  sin  to 
purity.  The  variation  is  in  the  degree,  and  not  the  kind 
of  their  enjoyment.  Not  so  will  it  be  with  us.  AH  the 
changes  we  undergo  in  our  earthly  career,  are  not  to  be 
compared   with  that  of  which  we  shall  be  sensible,  when 


TO    THE  ANGELS.  205 

we  enter  into  our  final  reward.  If  we  joy  in  our  earthly 
escapes,  and  our  earthly  advancement,  what  must  be  our 
ecstasy  at  that  widest  and  highest  flight,  when  we  enter  on 
our  new  career  of  accelerated  progress. 

First,  The  spirit  will  be  free  from  the  depressing  influ- 
ence of  a  material  body. 

We  do  wrong  when  we  indulge  in  sweeping  invectives 
against  our  imperfect  physical  nature.  We  should  not 
undervalue  the  body.  It  is  the  stepping-stone  to  immor- 
tality. The  soul  can  be  best  cradled  by  it  in  its  nascent 
state,  when  first  born  into  a  world  of  knowledge  and  ac- 
tion. Its  subsequent  maturity  and  perfection  are  no 
doubt  best  secured  by  such  an  alliance.  Its  knowledge 
of  the  relations  of  space  and  time,  and  many  of  its  most 
important  susceptibilities  of  pain  and  pleasure,  are  derived 
from  its  connection  with  this  curiously  wrought  frame- 
work. Yet  however  indebted  the  soul  may  be  to  the  dis- 
cipline of  this  preparatory  school,  it  is  evident  that  a  ma- 
terial frame  is  in  no  way  fitted  for  the  eternal  home  of  the 
spirit.  Even  if  man  had  continued  morally  perfect,  there 
would  probably  have  been  much  of  imperfection  incident  to 
his  physical  nature.  The  spirit,  happy  in  the  consciousness 
of  purity,  would  yet  have  panted  for  clearer  views,  larger 
knowledge,  more  intimate  communion  with  its  Maker. 
I  think  it  is  beyond  a  question,  that  the  happy  family  would 
have  continued  but  for  a  season  to  pluck  the  fruits  of  the 
garden,  and  enjoy  the  privileges  of  its  devout  and  holy 
intercourse.  The  eye  would  have  beamed  with  the  hope 
of  a  brighter  existence,  and  the  mind  would  have  ex- 
panded in  the  anticipation  of  communion  with  the 
unseen.  "  In  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
they  would  have  all  been  changed."  Even  those  who 
in  our  imperfect  world  have  approached  the  nearest  to 
a  subjugation  of  the  body,  seem  but  to  have  been  ripened 
for  their  dissevered  spirituality.  Enoch  walked  with  God 
18 


206  SUPERIORITY  OF    THE  SAINTS 

SO  intimately,  that  death  seemed  afraid  to  shake  at  him 
his  dreadful  dart.  Yet  he  could  not  be  left  to  immortality 
on  earth  ;  but,  as  if  the  body  were  no  sphere  for  such 
purity  and  cultivation,  **  he  was  not,  for  God  took  him." 
Elijah,  in  a  career  which  seemed  more  like  that  of  an  an- 
gel of  light,  than  a  prophet  of  earth,  smote  death  in  the 
widow's  son,  and  faced  his  stern  visage  in  the  strength 
which  the  birds  of  the  air  did  minister.  Yet  neither  was 
he  left  to  prosecute  his  great  work  of  frowning  down  the 
enemies  of  the  Lord,  and  shining  as  the  conspicuous 
forerunner  of  his  Messiah.  He  was  caught  up  in  a  whirl- 
wind of  flame,  to  be  charioteer  of  a  warfare  higher  than 
that  of  Israel.  The  larger  the  thoughts,  the  more  effi- 
cient the  activity,  the  more  do  we  pant  after  a  sphere  of 
unimpeded  progress  and  action.  I  appeal  to  many  of 
you,  my  brethren,  whether  there  have  not  been  moments 
in  your  experience,  when  views  of  truth  or  glimpses  of 
your  high  destiny  were  so  vividly  presented  that  you  felt 
unable  to  sustain  the  gaze.  Bewildered  and  astonished, 
you  felt  restless  longings  to  be  free  from  a  frame  that 
could  be  so  shattered  by  what  your  souls  most  craved  and 
loved.  Your  language  then  was,  "  Oh  !  that  I  had  wings 
like  a  dove  ;  "  for  then  would  I  fly  out  of  these  dim  win- 
dows into  the  clear  noonday  of  the  presence  of  my  God. 
We  feel  that  there  is  that  without  and  that  within,  after 
which  we  hunger  and  thirst  with  unutterable  cravings  ; 
yet  this  dying  nature  cannot  feed  upon  such  heavenly 
food. 

"  There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold' st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young- eyed  cherubim; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls, 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  us  in,  we  cannot  hear  it." 

**  There  is,"   says    the   apostle,    **  a  spiritual    body." 
Wonderful   and   mysterious  provision  of  divine   benevo- 


^  ''  TO    THE  ANGELS.  207 

lence  !  God  does  not  design  that  the  dead  in  Christ  shall 
be  merely  restored  to  moral  perfection  in  heaven.  He 
unites  the  perfect  spirit  with  as  perfect  a  nature.  He  im- 
bues it  with  a  frame  adapted  to  its  high  behests,  and  its 
consummate  cultivation.  Even  he  hath  an  eye  on  the 
crumbling  dust  of  his  chosen.  In  the  morninor  of  the 
great  resurrection,  they  come  not  up  rusty  and  time-worn 
from  their  tabernacle  of  clay,  or  congealed  and  dripping 
from  their  cold  dark  bed  in  the  ocean.  Blessed  be  God, 
**  there  is  a  spiritual  body."  Immortal  beauty  beams  from 
their  brow.  The  robe  they  wear  is  incorruptible.  On- 
ward and  upward  stretches  the  soul's  field  of  vision — vast, 
illimitable.  What  looked  dark  to  the  earthly  eye,  be- 
comes bright  with  the  light  of  God.  What  the  mind 
toiled  to  attain,  till  its  strained  efforts  ended  in  disease  or 
blindness,  is  now  revealed  in  an  instant,  with  no  long 
processes  of  half-seen  truth  to  detain,  but  in  the  blessed- 
ness of  quick  intuition.  And  farther  beyond  lie  still  un- 
discovered truths,  to  keep  the  mind  alive  with  perpetual 
excitement,  to  prompt  it  to  constant  action,  to  secure  by 
vigorous  exercise  its  discipline  and  continued  action. 
But  principally  are  the  hinderances  to  moral  cultivation 
which  are  incident  to  our  physical  nature,  absorbed  and 
subdued  in  that  new  system.  The  passions  assume  their 
appropriate  and  subordinate  seat.  The  dim  media,  by 
which  the  soul  strove  to  look  into  perfection,  shall  give 
place  to  perfection  itself.  Faith  and  hope  shall  be  swal- 
lowed up  in  vision.  But  love  shall  remain.  *'  Yea," 
says  Tholuck,  *'  not  only  shall  it  remain,  but  the  narrow 
brook,  which  in  this  life  flowed  froni  deeply  hidden  foun- 
tains, will  in  that  life  become  a  wide  stream.  Here  love 
could  be  preserved  only  while  the  eye  of  faith  held  the 
invisible  world  directly  before  itself  Try  it,  shut  for  an 
instant  this  internal  eye,  and  thou  wilt  love  only  what  thou 
seest.     Ah  !  why  dost  thou  hang  solely  upon  the  creatures 


208  SUPERIORITY  OF    THE  SAINTS 

of  earth  and  long  after  them  ?  Why,  but  because  their 
eye  of  faith  is  not  open,  and  thou  seest  not  the  invisible 
glory  of  the  Father's  image.  But  when  there  shall  be  no 
more  need  of  this  intellectual  exertion,  when  the  thick 
cloud  of  the  earthly  vale  shall  no  longer  press  upon  the 
eye  of  faith,  when  the  very  object,  in  which  we  here 
faintly  believe,  shall  stand  constantly  before  our  vision — 
oh  how  easy  will  it  then  be  to  love !  The  death  of  the 
believer  shall  be  the  death  also  of  his  faith  and  hope,  but 
it  shall  be  the  resurrection-hour  of  his  love." 

Secondly,  Christians  in  heaven  will  be  released  from 
the  pain  and  misery  incident  to  their  earthly  condition. 

These  bodies  of  ours  are  not  only  gross  but  perishing. 
They  not  only  hold  the  immortal  part  in  vassalage,  but  it 
is  a  vassalage  which  galls  and  goads,  and  sends  the  heart 
bleeding  and  broken  to  the  grave.  '*  All  our  life  time 
through  fear  of  death,  we  are  in  bondage."  We  feel  the 
disease  stealing  over  our  own  frames.  We  trace  its  sure 
marks  on  the  visage  of  our  most  beloved.  To  the  vigor- 
ous and  blooming,  in  whom  we  trust  most  securely,  death 
comes  in  the  form  of  sudden  and  appalling  calamity. 
"  There  are  some  persons,"  as  an  old  writer  has  expressed 
it,  '*  upon  whose  foreheads  every  man  can  read  the  sen- 
tence of  death  written  in  the  lines  of  a  lingering  sick- 
ness, but  they  sometimes  hear  the  passing-bell  ring  for 
stronorer  men,  even  loner  before  their  own  knell  calls  at 
the  house  of  their  mother  earth  to  open  her  doors  and 
make  a  bed  for  them."  Yet  there  is  a  wretchedness  more 
dreadful  than  this  bodily  suffering,  or  this  personal  be- 
reavement. There  is  a  prospect  more  gloomy  than  the 
solitude  of  sorrow,  or  the  throbbings  of  continued  pain. 
It  is  when  the  diseases  of  this  shattered  body  turn  inward 
to  feed  upon  the  mind.  Even  the  healthful  and  wise  and 
good  are  not  free  from  the  scourge  of  insanity.  It  has 
been  estimated  that  its  ravages  are  fearfully  multiplying 


TO   THE  ANGELS.  *SClO 

as  civilization  advances,  so  that  beyond  the  accidental 
causes  which  may  produce  it,  we  must  be  in  terror  from 
those  which  are  incident  to  the  progress  of  society. 
There  is  scarcely  an  educated  man,  or  one  that  has  been 
accustomed  deeply  and  intensely  to  ponder  the  workings 
of  his  own  mind,  that  has  not  felt  some  forebodings  of 
this  mental  disease.  "  Chain  me  face  to  face  with  death," 
says  such  a  one,  **  and  let  my  life  be  prolonged  in  linger- 
ing agonies,  the  stern  monarch  ever  in  my  eyes — strip 
from  me  every  object  of  earthly  love,  though  the  deep 
fastened  fibres  are  left  naked,  and  with  no  object  to  cling 
to — yet  touch  not,  derange  not  that  noble  workmanship 
within.  So  I  may  look  up  to  God  from  the  depth  of  my 
wo,  I  will  not  murmur." 

In  heaven  all  these  pangs  and  griefs  and  anxieties  are 
forever  hushed.  There  the  system  contemplates  with  de- 
light its  own  healthful  and  symmetrical  action,  with  no 
feverish  dread  lest  its  wheels  become  disordered,  and 
begin  to  move  with  jarring  and  painful  discord.  There 
shall  be  no  night  there.  The  dim  ray  of  happiness  which 
cheered  our  pilgrimage  deepens  into  the  full  sunlight 
of  fruition.  The  memory  of  the  past,  in  the  resurrection 
of  its  forgotten  treasures,  becomes  as  vivid  as  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  present.  And  the  light  of  day  grows 
brighter  in  the  reminiscence  of  night.  Chiefly  does  this 
faculty  aid  us  in  making  our  former  losses  on  earth,  our 
gain  in  heaven.  This  is  a  rapture  which  angels  cannot 
know.  That  seraph  never  receives  back  a  child  to  his 
embrace,  or  welcomes  the  returning  companion  from  his 
long  absence.  They  know  not  of  separation.  Ever  their 
spirits  commingle  and  tabernacle  together,  and  space  and 
time  can  interpose  no  barriers  to  the  perfection  and  the 
constancy  of  their  intercourse.  Not  so,  my  brethren,  will 
it  be  with  us.  The  shining  messengers  who  welcome  us 
home  shall  be  our  old  familiar  friends.  Distinct  and  pal- 
18* 


210  SUPERIORITY  OF    THE  SAINTS 

pable  to  our  spiritual  vision  shall  be  the  outline  of  each 
well-remembered  and  well-loved  form.  With  what  joy 
shall  we  recount  to  each  other  the  perils  of  the  past,  and 
congratulate  ourselves  on  the  secure  and  blissful  and  ev- 
erlasting communion  to  which  our  God  exalted  us. 

Thirdly,  Christians  in  heaven  will  be  perfectly  free 
from  sin. 

The  perfection  of  the  physical  system  which  has  already 
been  described,  if  it  were  under  the  government  of  de- 
praved passions  instead  of  being  swayed  by  moral  purity, 
would  only  aggravate  the  misery  of  its  possessors.  The 
absence  of  every  external  malady  and  pain  would  drive 
the  soul  more  dismally  inward  to  brood  over  its  own  moral 
wastes,  and  would  quite  shut  out  the  prospect  of  relief 
from  ultimate  annihilation.  In  a  system  so  perfectly  ar- 
ticulated, so  immense  in  its  resources,  so  rapid  in  its  ac- 
tivity, sin  would  be  furnished  with  new  powers  of  devel- 
opment, and  new  faculties  of  operation.  With  new  alac- 
rity would  it  stalk  abroad  to  the  work  of  ruin  without, 
or  prey  inward  in  the  processes  of  its  endless  suicide. 
What  would  be  the  expansion  of  knowledge,  but  the  per- 
petual communion  of  the  guilty  with  the  wrath  of  God, 
and  the  ability  to  sound  the  depths  of  that  wo  into  which 
they  were  forever  plunging.  What  would  be  the  ever- 
living  memory,  but  the  power  of  conjuring  up  the  spec- 
tres of  old  transgressions  to  haunt  the  scared  spirit,  and 
"  never  down  at  its  bidding."  What  would  be  the  re- 
newal of  old  associations,  but  a  companionship  where 
each  laid  open  to  the  other  the  hideousness  of  his  own 
depravity,  and  each  was  stimulated  in  his  mad  and  miser- 
able career  by  the  mutual  exhibition.  Oh  love  it  and 
dote  upon  it  as  we  may,  there  is  nothing  to  be  compared 
with  sin,  when  it  unsheathes  its  scorpion-stings,  and  com- 
mences the  work  of  self-retribution.  Bind  your  victim 
to  the  rack,  and  let  him  linger  out  his  eternity  in  lacera- 


TO    THE    ANGELS. 

tions  which  heal  up  only  to  be  torn  afresh  ;  with  a  good 
conscience  and  a  pure  soul,  he  may  look  up  and  smile 
from  his  wretchedness.  But  with  the  enemy  in  his  bosom 
he  is  insecure  in  a  rock-built  mansion — miserable  on  an 
archangel's  throne. 

•*  He  that  has  light  within  liis  ovm  clear  breast 
May  sit  i'  th*  centre,  and  enjoy  bright  day  ; 
But  he  that  hides  a  dark  soul  and  foul  thoughts, 
Benighted  walks  under  the  mid-day  sun, 
Himself  is  his  own  dungeon." 

The  heaven  of  the  Christian, — so  speaks  the  tongue  of 
inspiration,  so  speak  the  demands  of  our  own  spiritual 
nature, — is  an  abode  of  moral  purity.  '*  There  shall  in 
no  wise  enter  into  it  anything  that  defileth."  It  is  chiefly 
because  "the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,"  that  "the 
weary  are  at  rest."  To  the  heirs  of  that  blissful  portion 
how  delio^htful  the  contrast !  Here  sin  was  their  (jreat 
enemy.  It  sat  crouched  like  a  lurking  beast  at  the  door 
of  their  hearts.  It  sparkled  in  the  cup  of  pleasure.  Ar- 
rayed in  the  habiliments  of  purity,  it  met  them  by  the 
way-side,  and  now  openly  and  fearlessly  it  assailed  them 
as  a  strong  man  armed.  Only  in  the  last  fading  hour 
when  it  stood  to  mock  and  triumph  by  the  bed  of  death, 
did  it  receive  its  signal  overthrow,  and  shrink  abashed 
from  the  scene.  They  went  through  life  wrestling.  They 
reach  home  toil-worn.  But  every  spiritual  fear  is  at  length 
hushed.  The  warring  is  completed.  The  imperishable 
crown  of  victory  is  put  on.  With  what  delight,  from 
this  house  of  refuge,  do  they  look  out  upon  the  storms 
and  battles  of  the  past.  The  memory  of  each  conflict 
enhances  the  value  of  their  eternal  reward.  Each  diffi- 
culty over  which  they  stumbled  in  their  earthly  pilgrimage, 
makes  more  pleasant  and  smooth  the  pathway  they  now 
tread.  There  is  a  luxury  in  the  penitence  they  still  exer- 
cise for  past  transgressions,  and  they  read  over  and  over 


212  SUPERIORITY  OF    THE  SAINTS 

that  dark  sad  history  only  to  deepen  the  spirit  of  their 
devotions,  and  increase  the  ardor  of  their  piety. 

It  will  be  perceived  that  in  this  first  argument,  only  a 
partial  superiority  is  claimed  for  the  saints.  It  is  not  as- 
serted that  they  excel  the  angels  in  every  species  of  hap- 
piness, but  only  in  that  which  results  from  a  contrast  with 
their  former  state.  It  is  not  so  much  that  they  are  above 
the  angels  now,  as  that  they  were  so  far  below  them  once ; 
not  so  much  that  they  possess  higher  powers  and  are  en- 
robed in  a  more  glorious  nature,  as  that  once  their  facul- 
ties were  so  limited,  and  their  views  so  groveling.  It  is 
not  that  they  are  free  from  pain  and  safe  from  trouble, 
but  that  once  they  traveled  over  a  stony  path,  and  wet 
the  ground  with  their  tears.  It  is  not  that  their  existence 
is  more  spotless,  or  their  praise  more  undefiled,  but  that 
once  sin  had  a  throne  in  their  bosoms,  and  touched  with 
unholy  hand  their  purest  sacrifices.  They  are  the  prodi- 
gal children  brought  home  from  long,  dark,  famished 
wanderings  to  their  Father's  house.  Angels  are  the  elder 
sons  of  the  family  — ever  faithful  to  its  regulations,  ever 
rich  in  its  bounties,  never  straying  beyond  the  privileges 
of  its  joyous  circle.  But  for  the  returning  ones  they 
make  merry  and  are  glad.  Joy  swells  the  bosom  of  the 
Father  more  than  if  he  had  never  mourned  over  the  lost 
and  dead.  Joy  beams  on  the  countenances  of  the  ran- 
somed more  than  if  they  had  never  chafed  under  the  sad 
and  distant  captivity.  Joy  breathes  in  the  praises  of  the 
angels  over  the  repenting,  more  than  over  themselves, 
*'  the  ninety  and  nine  who  need  no  repentance." 

The  second  point  of  superiority  must  be  reserved  for  a 
subsequent  discourse.  Let  me  conclude  with  a  few  words 
suggested  by  the  view  of  the  subject  already  presented. 
My  Christian  friends,  it  speaks  the  language  of  comfort 
to  you.  It  unravels  the  great  mystery  of  your  suffering  ; 
it  shows  that  it  is   to  be  the  occasion  of  your  joy.     Let 


TO  THE   ANGELS.  SI8 

not  your  hearts  be  troubled  amid  the  vexations  of  your 
present  existence.  Be  of  good  cheer.  The  tabernacle 
which  now  obstructs  your  spiritual  vision,  and  impedes 
your  heavenward  flight,  is  not  to  be  your  eternal  dwelling 
place.  One  day  "  this  corruptible  must  put  on  incorrup- 
tion,  and  this  mortal  must  put  on  immortality."  The 
suiferings  over  which  you  now  grieve  shall  be  exchanged 
for  unalloyed  bliss,  and  the  lost  for  whom  you  mourn  are 
reserved  to  welcome  your  happy  transition  to  the  place 
they  have  gone  to  prepare  for  you.  Cease  not  your  spir- 
itual warfare  day  or  night,  for  the  crown  of  a  good 
soldier  awaits  you.  Yea,  and  all  these  '*  light  afflictions, 
which  are  but  for  a  moment,  shall  work  out  for  you  a  far 
more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory,"  for  it  is 
because  you  suffer  so  deeply  now,  that  you  will  joy  so  ex- 
ultingly  hereafter.  Grieve  not  for  yourselves,  but  rather 
for  those  who  participate  in  no  such  hopes;  to  whom 
eternity  can  but  aggravate  the  miseries  of  time,  and 
though  the  present  is  to  them  starless  and  sad,  there  is  a 
blacker  night  in  the  future  to  which  they  are  hastening. 
To  them  terrible  indeed  shall  be  the  incorruptible  body 
they  put  on,  only  endowing  them  with  new  powers  of  suf- 
fering, and  making  infinite  their  capacity  for  wo.  To 
them  the  contrast  of  the  blessed  shall  be  reversed.  They 
shall  look  back  to  earth  as  all  their  heaven.  Its  wilder- 
nesses shall  assume  a  beauty  to  their  distracted  gaze.  Its 
ignorance  shall  be  deemed  bliss  compared  with  present 
knowledge.  Its  sorrows  shall  seem  joys  compared  with 
present  anguish.  But  even  this  heaven  of  their  existence, 
poor,  dark,  brief  though  it  be,  they  shall  long  pray  for 
without  avail.  Earth  was  all  their  heaven,  and  even  that 
is  lost  forever. 


m^ 


SERMON  III 


THE  SAINTS  IN  HEA^^N  SUPERIOR  TO  THE  ANGELS. 


KNOW  YE  NOT  THAT  WE  SHALL  JUDGE  ANGELS  ? — 1  Cor.  6  :  3. 

In  the  preceding  discourse,  the  sentiment  deduced 
from  the  text  and  proposed  for  illustration,  was,  the  supe- 
riority of  saints  to  angels.  A  sketch  of  the  history  and 
character  of  angels  proved  that  this  superiority  is  not 
absolute  and  entire,  extending  to  every  feature  of  the 
constitution,  but  is  rather  limited  to  those  particulars 
which  are  connected  with  the  change  from  sin  to  holiness. 
The  first  point  of  superiority  was  stated  to  be,  the  con- 
sciousness which  those  who  were  elevated  from  earth  to 
heaven  might  have  of  great  advancement  in  their  charac- 
ter and  condition.  This  consideration  was  shown  to  be 
pertinent  from  the  delight  which  the  mind  always  takes 
in  contemplating  its  own  progress.  In  the  glorified 
saints,  the  principle  would  be  developed  in  several  ways. 
They  would  rejoice  in  their  dismemberment  from  the 
body,  and  in  the  clear  views  and  enlarged  capacities 
attained  in  their  new  and  exalted  nature.  They  would 
contrast  their  felicity  with  the  pain  and  sorrow  of  earth, 
and  regain  the  treasures  which  were  once  torn  from 
them.  Above  all  would  they  exult  that  they  were  now 
free    from  the  captivity  of  sin — that  the   chains  of  that 


SUPERIORITY  OF  THE  SAINTS.  dt# 

great  master  were  at  length  broken — and  while  they 
joyed  in  the  unimpeded  exercise  of  present  piety,  they 
would  bow  in  sweet  humility  under  the  recollection  of 
former  sin.  These  are  sources  of  enjoyment  to  which 
angels  in  the  permanent  elevation  of  their  nature,  and 
their  eternal  freedom  from  sorrow  and  guilt,  must  be 
strangers. 

We  proceed  now  to  another  source  of  the  superior 
enjoyment  of  the  saints,  and  remark, 

II.  Christians  in  heaven  will  be  superior  to  angels 
from  the  peculiarly  interesting  relation  they  sustain  to 
Christ. 

Christ  is  the  great  central  attraction  of  heaven.  The 
author  of  the  epistle  to  the  Hebrews  enters  into  an  elabo- 
rate comparison  between  him  and  the  angels.  He  shows 
that  he  has  a  more  exalted  name  than  they,  being  elevated 
to  the  privileges  of  sonship  and  heirship.  He  sits  upon 
a  throne  and  wields  a  sceptre,  while  they  are  but  the 
ministers  of  his  will.  The  heavens  and  the  earth  are 
represented  as  the  product  of  his  divine  workmanship — 
the  finite  and  fading  creatures  of  his  infinite  and  eternal 
power.  Above  all,  and  most  conclusively  for  his  argu- 
ment, does  the  apostle  appeal  to  that  ancient  description 
of  the  majesty  of  his  kingdom,  where  *'  a  fire  goeth 
before  him  to  devour  his  enemies,"  there  is  a  vision  of 
lightnings  and  a  trembling  world,  and  the  hills  seem  to 
"  melt  like  wax,"  before  the  awe-inspiring  presence  of 
this  King  of  kings.  Then  from  the  midst  of  these  terri- 
ble manifestations,  there  comes  forth  the  mandate,  "  Let 
all  the  angels  of  God  worship  him."  But  not  only  is  he 
superior  to  angels,  and  the  object  of  their  homage ;  he  is 
himself  God.  Mystery  of  mysteries— God  and  not  God  ! 
And  not  only  is  he  himself  Jehovah,  but  Jehovah 
descending  from  the  throne  of  his  deep  invisible  abstrac- 
tion, and  unveiling  himself  with  peculiar  beauty  to  the 


216  SUPERIORITY    OF    THE    SAINTS 

gaze.  The  eye  that  is  fixed  upon  his  loveliness  needs  no 
other  light.  The  soul  that  dwells  under  the  shadow  of 
his  mercy-seat  can  demand  no  better  pavilion.  And  if 
there  be  distinction  in  rank  among  the  various  orders  of 
heaven,  will  not  those  be  the  most  princely,  who  are 
nearest  to  this  royal  head,  who  bear  his  mark  upon  their 
foreheads,  and  carry  about  with  them  *'  the  white  stone 
on  which  his  name  is  written." 

There  are  many  circumstances  which  seem  to  indicate, 
that  saints  in  heaven  will  sustain  a  personal  relation  to 
Christ  more  intimate  and  interesting  than  that  of  angels. 
Their  whole  career  preparatory  to  that  elevation  seems 
fitted  to  fix  his  image  most  endearingly  upon  their  hearts, 
and  to  make  him  the  great  essential  of  their  being. 
Those  seasons  on  earth  which  are  most  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  heaven,  are  distinguished  for  the  preciousness 
and  the  nearness  with  which  his  person  seems  to  be 
revealed.  I  appeal  to  some  of  you,  whether  in  those 
moments  of  devotion,  when  the  world  has  receded,  and 
'  whether  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body  you  could  not 
tell,'  the  one  clear  vision  on  the  eye  of  your  soul  has  not 
been  the  face  of  your  Redeemer.  And  again  in  the 
seasons  of  trial  and  affliction,  when  the  sundering  of 
earthly  hopes  fixed  the  grieved  spirit  on  the  ark  of  its 
eternal  refuge,  and,  reminded  of  the  loneliness  of  your 
pilgrimage  here,  you  caught  glimpses  of  "  the  city  that 
is  yet  to  come" — was  not  the  Lamb  the  chief  light 
thereof,  when  exultingly  you  exclaimed,  that  *  nothing 
should  separate  you  from  the  love  of  Christ.'  If  there 
is  any  one  thing  remarkable  in  the  triumph  of  dying 
Christians,  it  is  the  almost  invariable  uniformity  with 
which  they  express  themselves  concerning  the  Saviour. 
To  them  he  seems  arrayed  in  new  beauty.  Tired  and 
exhausted  they  lean  upon  his  arm.  When  they  feel  that 
the  night  is  dark  and  the  waters  are  deep,  through  the 


TO  THE  ANGELS**-*^'***"  %Vt' 

shades  the  light  of  his  smile  is  discerned,  and  they  hear  his 
cheering  voice  even  while  all  the  waves  are  passing  over 
them.  Sometimes  to  those  whom  death  meets  suddenly, 
by  the  way  side,  on  the  ocean,  though  they  thought  not 
of  their  coming  doom,  yet  the  watchful  and  all-seeing 
Guardian  seemed  with  prophetic  beauty  to  appear  t<t 
them,  and  awaken  almost  unconsciously  those  views  and 
hopes  which  he  was  soon  to  reward  with  full  fruition.  I 
knew  of  one  not  long  since  who  perished  thus  unexpect- 
edly. The  last  words  heard  from  him  were  in  the  bloom 
of  health,  and  the  full  flush  of  earthly  promise.  Yet  the 
expression  indicated  that  he  was  holding  peculiar  com- 
munion  with  his  Saviour,  and  that  he  trusted  himself 
with  newly  inspired  faith  to  the  care  of  his  covenant 
Guide.  The  Bible  that  floated  ashore  from  the  scene  of 
his  terrific  death  had  marked  as  the  theme  of  his  recent 
meditation,  the  promise  of  the  Shepherd  to  support  his 
chosen  in  the  dark  valley.  Who  could  doubt  that  He 
who  appeared  to  him  to  soothe  his  spirit  for  its  approach* 
ing  though  unexpected  conflict,  not  only  stood  by  his 
side  like  a  minister  of  mercy  in  suffering  and  anguish, 
but  transported  him  to  nearer  and  more  blissful  com- 
munion with  himself  in  heaven. 

But  let  us  not  rest  merely  on  these  prophetic  indica- 
tions. Let  us  again  draw  aside  the  veil,  and  look  in 
upon  the  views  and  emotions  of  heaven.     We  shall  find. 

First,  That  Christians  in  heaven  are  permitted  to  con- 
template Christ  as  their  brother. 

"  Verily  he  took  not  on  him  the  nature  of  angels,  but 
he  took  on  him  the  seed  of  Abraham."  On  earth  he 
sympathized  with  their  sorrows  and  struggles,  with  their 
fruition  he  sympathizes  now.  In  each  reminiscence  of 
the  past,  he  has  with  them  a  fellow-feeling.  Once  he  too 
found  his  aspiring  nature  pent  up  within  the  walls  of  ti, 
fleshly  tabernacle.  Once  he  too  was  the  victim  of  disap- 
19 


218  SUPERIORITY    OP  THE  SAINTS 

pointment  and  grief — submitting  his  sensitive  nature  to 
obloquy  and  abuse,  wandering  houseless  and  forsaken  till 
"  his  head  was  filled  with  dew,  and  his  locks  with  the 
drops  of  the  night,"  groaning  in  spirit  by  the  sepulchre 
of  his  companions  and  friends',  and  giving  up  the  ghost 
with  physical  and  mental  tortures  even  more  tlian  man 
could  conceive.  Nor  did  he,  spotless  and  pure  though 
he  was,  escape  the  assaults  of  the  great  moral  enemy. 
He  encountered  sin  as  the  great  obstacle  to  his  successful 
mission.  It  met  him  in  the  depraved  and  short-sighted 
views  of  his  chosen,  in  the  sneers  and  contempt  of  his 
enemies.  In  the  person  of  the  adversary  it  followed  his 
famished  frame  to  the  wilderness,  it  whispered  to  him  the 
language  of  rebellion  in  the  garden,  it  stood  mocking 
his  agonies  upon  the  cross.  In  that  last  fearful  moment, 
gathering  all  its  strength  and  virulence,  by  some  mysteri- 
ous process,  it  weighed  upon  his  soul  as  if  himself  had 
been  the  guilty,  and  left  him  to  expire  in  despair.  But 
now,  like  his  beloved,  the  more  exalted  and  glorious  is 
he,  that  he  humbled  himself  so  low.  ♦'  The  Captain  of 
our  salvation  is  made  perfect  through  sufferings."  How 
intimate  and  how  blissful  must  be  the  communion  be- 
tween this  elder  brother  and  the  family  of  his  saints. 
The  robe  he  wears  is  like  their  own,  though  infinitely 
more  resplendent.  He  no  doubt  appears  in  that  glorified 
humanity,  that  spiritual  corporeity  which  is  the  vesture  of 
his  saints.  Such  as  it  appeared  on  the  mount  of  trans- 
figuration—the sunlike  visage,  and  the  glistering  raiment; 
such  as  it  shone  forth  on  the  morning  of  the  ascension, 
when  a  cloud  enveloped  his  unutterable  glory  ;  such  as 
John  fainted  before,  when  he  "  saw  in  the  midst  of  the 
seven  candlesticks  one  like  unto  the  Son  of  man,"  and 
*•  heard  the  voice  as  the  sound  of  many  waters."  Far  as 
the  dialects  of  heaven  exceed  the  impoverished  epithets 
of  earth,  so  far  will  that  outward  glory  exceed  our  high- 


TO    THE    ANGELS.  219 

est  imagination.  Angels  will  wonder  and  adore.  In 
their  intercourse  with  the  saints  we  may  conjecture  that 
their  exclamations  in  view  of  this  ravishing  beauty  will 
be  most  delightful.  How  that  form,  such  a  one  may  say, 
attracts  to  itself  the  admiring  gaze  of  heaven.  "  Fairer 
art  thou  than  the  children  of  men.  Grace  is  poured  into 
thy  lips.  God  hath  blessed  thee  forever."  He  is  my 
brother,  will  be  the  reply.  He  was  my  chosen  companion 
and  guide,  even  when  I  saw  him  not.  Ever  he  stood  by 
my  side,  unfolding  the  picture  of  his  spotless  life,  whis- 
pering the  injunctions  of  his  blessed  gospel,  beckoning  to 
the  participation  of  his  own  inheritance.  What  was 
then  revealed  only  to  the  half-opened  eye  of  the  soul,  has 
become  the  blessedness  of  full  vision.  I  can  see  him  as 
he  is.  "  Beloved,  now  are  we  the  sons  of  God,  but  it 
doth  not  yet  appear  what  we  shall  be  :  but  we  know  that 
when  he  shall  appear,  we  shall  be  like  him,  for  we  shall 
see  him  as  he  is." 

Secondly,  They  will  contemplate  him  as  their  Re- 
deemer. 

Redemption  is  probably  the  great  culminating  point  of 
the  universe.  From  those  glimpses  which  are  given  us 
of  the  employments  and  praises  of  the  upper  world,  we 
cannot  doubt  that  it  is  the  theme  upon  which  angels 
most  delight  to  dwell.  And  as  it  is  the  praise  of  heaven, 
it  is  no  doubt  the  joy  of  myriads  of  worlds  unrevealed  to 
us.  Only  the  inhabitants  of  earth  may  be  directly  bene- 
fitted, but  it  involves  principles  in  the  divine  character 
and  administration,  which  must  attract  the  interest  and 
love  of  all  God's  intelligent  creatures.  Some  seraph  has 
no  doubt  been  employed  to  communicate  it  even  to  the 
remotest  corner  of  the  creation.  For  long  ages  the  uni- 
verse may  have  been  occupied  in  solving  this  great  mys- 
tery ;  and  it  is  worthy  of  such  scrutiny.  What  an  idea 
to  dwell  upon  is  that  of  God  coming  down  in  the  person 


220  SUPERIORITY    OF    THE    SAINTS 

of  his  Son,  not  merely  to  aid  men  by  his  example  and  his 
sympathy,  but  to  suffer  for  their  sins.  How  distinguish- 
ing the  grace  that  selected  the  gloom  of  midnight  in 
which  its  rays  should  be  revealed.  Because  we  had  sunk 
so  low,  that  there  was  no  other  remedy,  this  intercessor 
extended  bis  helping  hand,  and  nailed  to  his  own  cross 
the  sentence  of  our  doom.  Who  can  fathom  that  sove- 
reign justice,  which  passed  by  the  angels  who  left  their 
first  estate,  but  for  man  accepted  the  provisions  of 
redeeming  love,  and  brought  back  the  worst  of  rebels  to 
the  welcome  of  the  best  of  sons.  Oh  !  study  it  and 
analyze  it  as  we  may,  bring  forth  from  the  store-house  of 
the  past  its  analogies,  and  let  philosophy  pretend  to  prop 
up  with  her  theories  this  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus — it  stands 
out  alone  in  all  history — grand,  solitary,  sublime,  baffling 
all  research,  putting  speculation  to  the  blush,  and  leaving 
to  the  inquirer  nothing  but  the  simple  unexplained  con- 
cession :  "  Here  mercy  and  justice  have  met  together, 
righteousness  and  peace  have  embraced  each  other."  At 
the  cross  of  Christ,  the  proud  intellect  of  man  casts  off 
its  arrogance,  and  asks  for  the  spirit  of  a  child.  Here 
intellio-ences  more  elevated  than  ours  stand  abashed  as 
they  ponder  this  production  of  the  infinite  intellect  of 
Jehovah.  And,  my  brethren,  what  dignity  and  honor 
will  belong  to  us,  when  we  stand  among  that  blood-bought 
band,  and  remember  that  the  great  work,  which  extorts 
the  homage,  though  it  exhausts  the  study  of  all  worlds, 
was  devised  and  executed  for  us.  To  the  eyes  of  all 
creatures  we  shall  stand  forth,  as  the  monuments  of 
infinite  grace,  and  the  images  of  our  Redeemer's  love. 

But  there  is  another  position  than  that  of  honor  and 
dignity  which  we  shall  occupy,  yet  no  less  fraught  with 
pleasure  to  ourselves,  or  endearment  to  him  who  gave 
himself  for  us.  It  is  that  humble  consciousness  that  we 
are  not  our  own,  but  that  we  are  bought  with  a  price. 


TO    THE    ANGELS.  S!Q1 

**  Not  unto  us,  not  unto  us,  but  to  thy  great  name  be  all 
the  glory."  My  friends,  when  we  feel  deeply  indebted  to 
a  fellow-being  for  some  benefit  conferred,  how  is  our 
enjoyment  enhanced  even  by  the  consciousness  of  unful- 
filled obligation.  We  are  so  constituted  that  the  pleasures 
of  sympathetic  gratitude  are  higher  than  the  satisfaction 
of  a  full  discharge,  and  the  soul  never  flows  with  such 
full  and  free  delight,  as  when  it  pours  itself  out  in  love 
for  that  which  it  can  never  repay.  How  we  delight  in 
the  presence  of  our  benefactor.  With  what  affectionate 
interest  do  we  listen  to  his  words,  and  watch  his  slightest 
motions.  How  we  exult  when  he  is  honored,  how  we 
rejoice  when  he  is  glad.  Memory  dotes  on  him  in  his 
absence,  and  the  glistening  eye  follows  him  even  in  his 
far  off*  journeyings.  He  becomes  indeed  the  all  in  all  of 
our  being.  Love  that  finds  no  adequate  representation  of 
its  depths,  that  will  not  dare  to  express  itself  in  words  or 
deeds,  lest  the  poor  tribute  belie  the  swelling  heart— such 
love  returns  back  to  the  bosom  from  which  it  has  no 
outlet,  and  there  it  finds  a  thousand  avenues  through 
which  to  diffuse  its  streams  of  joy,  and  make  the  life  of 
its  possessor  a  perpetual  fountain  of  delights.  But  an 
Apostle  has  said  that  no  human  analogy  can  reach  the 
love  of  the  Son  of  God.  It  surpasses  the  brightest 
examples  of  history,  it  transcends  the  highest  conceptions 
which  our  poor  sense  of  justice  will  admit.  And  far  as 
the  benefaction  of  our  Redeemer  is  superior  to  our 
experience  of  earthly  favors,  so  high  must  be  the  grati- 
tude and  love  which  follow  our  contemplations  and 
inspire  our  praises  in  another  world.  There  is  a  luxury 
even  in  the  sense  of  our  own  vileness,  when  that  poverty 
becomes  rich  in  the  wealth  of  our  Saviour.  There  is  a 
pleasure  in  the  memory  of  our  own  sin,  when  that  guilt 
becomes  innocence  from  the  reflection  of  Christ's  char- 
acter, and  we  borrow  a  lustre  and  a  nutriment  from  him, 
19* 


222  SUPERIORITY    OF    THE    SAINTS 

as  the  planets  beam  only  in  the  sun,  and  the  branches 
live  only  in  the  vine. 

Thirdly,  Jesus  is  the  king  of  his  saints. 

It  has  been  often  questioned,  whether  the  relation 
between  Christ  and  his  redeemed  people  will  subsist 
forever.  On  the  one  hand,  predictions  of  the  eternity  of 
his  reign  are  found  both  in  the  Old  and  New  Testament. 
On  the  other,  it  is  distinctly  intimated  in  one  passage, 
that  a  period  of  consummation  shall  arrive,  when  the 
Mediator  shall  lay  down  his  office,  and  surrender  his 
kingdom  unto  the  Father.  In  order  to  reconcile  these 
two  assertions,  it  has  been  said  that  the  eternity  predi- 
cated of  Christ's  reign  is  only  relative,  and  designates 
merely  a  protracted  and  not  an  endless  duration.  But 
the  moment  we  admit  such  license  with  reference  to 
eternity  predicated  of  the  future  state,  that  moment  we 
overthrow  the  barriers  of  legitimate  interpretation,  and 
leave  room  for  a  host  of  conjectures  concerning  the  limits 
of  future  punishment.  I  suppose  rather  that  the  limit 
which  seems  to  be  assigned  to  Christ's  reisrn,  is  the  limit 
affixed  to  his  official  work  as  Mediator.  Until  the  day  of 
judgment  he  has  the  power  of  standing  as  a  daysman 
between  the  sinner  and  his  God.  After  that  period, — 
fearful  truth  to  those  who  have  not  availed  themselves  of 
it  before, — his  redemption  is  no  longer  proffered  to  the 
lost.  Justice  seals  up  its  dreadful  account,  and  ceases  to 
commune  with  mercy.  "  There  remaineth  no  more 
sacrifice  for  sin."  As  a  mediator  for  the  future,  Christ 
lays  down  his  office,  but  as  the  mediator  of  the  past  he 
can  never  cease  to  shine  with  distinct  and  personal  glory. 
Neither  reason  nor  scripture  authorize  the  belief  that  his 
peculiar  relation  to  his  chosen  will  ever  terminate,  or  that 
there  can  be  a  period  when  he  shall  lay  down  all  his 
official  honors,  and  sink  into  the  indistinguishable  god- 
head.    Ever  distinct  and  palpable  will  he  no  doubt  be 


TO    THE    ANGELS.  223 

to  the  vision  of  the  redeemed,  the  continued  and  cease- 
less object  of  their  homage  and  their  praise.  It  is  the 
Lamb  himself  that  shall  lead  them  and  guide  them,  and 
wipe  all  tears  from  their  eyes. 

Nor  is  it  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  there  are  pur- 
poses to  be  fulfilled  by  this  eternal  reign,  purposes  as  yet 
unrevealed  to  us,  but  in  accomplishing  which,  we  shall 
have  peculiar  interest  and  instrumentality.  We  cannot 
suppose  that  God  is  then  any  more  than  now  to  act  by 
immediate  power,  fulfilling  his  glorious  plans,  accomplish- 
ing his  stupendous  work,  by  the  efficacy  of  his  simple 
word.  He  will  not  surround  himself  with  myriads  of  ex- 
alted creatures,  merely  to  be  gazed  at  and  admired.  He 
does  not  design  that  they  shall  sit  down,  the  idle  and  in- 
active spectators  of  his  operations,  but  he  gives  them  a 
work  fitted  to  command  such  energies  and  fiiculties  as 
theirs.  This  is  the  economy  of  heaven.  And  we,  my 
brethren,  delighting  as  we  do  in  our  Saviour's  service  on 
earth,  willing  to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  his  sorrow  if  we 
may  but  honor  his  name,  what  must  be  our  happiness, 
when  without  the  impediments  which  check  us  here,  we 
submit  our  new  created  and  exalted  powers  to  be  con- 
trolled and  directed  by  him  forever.  That  child  of  Christ 
on  earth,  who  is  permitted  the  honor  of  bearing  his  gospel 
across  the  ocean,  and  proclaiming  its  glad  news  to  some 
remote  and  benighted  idolater,  feels  that  it  is  a  joyous 
and  well-paid  service,  though  he  encounters  peril  and  re- 
proach, and  after  all  lays  down  his  bones  among  the 
mountains,  long  before  the  **  fruits  are  seen  to  shake  like 
Lebanon."  How  must  he  be  delighted  when  he  finds 
himself  endowed  with  physical  properties  which  know  no 
fatigue — able  at  the  will  of  his  king  to  travel  over  space, 
to  rove  among  stars  and  suns  on  his  errands  of  love,  and 
to  spend  eternity  in  those  princely  duties  which  are  al- 
ready marked  out  for  us,  though  ear  hath  not  heard,  nor 


224  SUPERIORITY  OF    THE  SAINTS 

heart  conceived  their  number  and  their  vastness.  In  the 
councils  of  that  kingdom,  we  no  doubt  shall  be  admitted 
to  an  intimacy  greater  than  that  of  angels,  and  in  the 
prosecution  of  its  plans,  we  shall  be  the  chief  adminis- 
trators. How  the  benevolent  heart  must  glow  with  the 
prospect  of  eternal  action,  and  we  who  know  not  how  we 
can  admire  too  much  the  love  of  Christ  as  it  has  already 
been  revealed,  may  yet  be  employed  in  aiding  him  on 
similar  projects,  which  his  exhaustless  and  infinite  good- 
ness may  suggest. 

Contrast  the  humblest  saint,  who  comes  home  from  his 
earthly  pilgrimage  to  heaven,  with  the  highest  archangel 
who  ministers  before  the  throne.  He,  glorious  in  holiness, 
splendid  in  beauty,  terrible  in  power!  We  would  not 
diminish  the  height  of  his  elevation,  or  impair  the  lustre 
of  his  crown.  But  who  is  this  that  comes  toil-worn  and 
timid  from  terrestrial  strugglings,  and  upon  whose  un- 
prepared virion  the  glories  of  the  upper  world  are  bursting 
in  their  full  effulgence.  That  song  of  angels  which 
ceases  neither  day  or  night — we  would  not  detract  from 
its  harmony  or  its  significance.  "  Holy,  holy,  holy.  Lord 
God  Almighty,  which  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  come.  Thou 
art  worthy,  O  Lord,  to  receive  glory,  and  honor,  and 
power,  for  thou  hast  created  all  things,  and  for  thy  pleas- 
ure they  are  and  were  created."  Verily  the  majesty  of 
the  Invisible  is  deserving  of  such  homage;  and  the  won- 
ders of  creation  even  of  old  waked  into  melody  the  sons 
of  God,  when  with  the  morning-stars  they  "shouted  and 
sang  together  fL)r  joy."  Yet  there  is  a  song  more  raptu- 
rous and  elevated,  such  as  breaks  from  the  lips  of  the  new 
inmate,  and  is  echoed  by  the  sympathetic  choir  of  the 
saints,  until  all  heaven  rings  with  the  gladsome  acclama- 
tion, "  Worthy  the  Lamb  that  was  slain,  for  he  has  re- 
deemed me  by  his  blood."  John  seems  to  have  had 
glimpses  of  this  superiority  in  his  apocalyptic  vision.     He 


TO  THE    ANGELS. 

speaks  of  "  a  new  song  that  no  man  could  learn  but  the 
hundred  and  forty  and  four  thousand  that  were  redeemed 
from  the  earth."  He  means,  that  although  angels  are 
constrained  to  join  in  that  song,  it  has  a  significance 
which  they  can  never  learn.  Their  well-trained  voices 
may  harmonize  with  the  music  of  the  saints,  but  there  is 
a  melody  of  the  soul  unawakened  in  them,  a  chord  of  the 
heart  untouched.  They  can  never  say,  This  Lamb  was 
slain ybr  us.  Accordingly,  their  position  is  represented  as 
not  in  such  immediate  proximity  to  the  throne  of  Jesus. 
The  nearest  to  that  seat  of  honor  are  those  who  represent 
the  church  of  the  redeemed.  They  commence  the  new 
and  exalted  strain,  •*  Thou  art  worthy  to  take  the  book, 
and  to  open  the  seals  thereof:  for  thou  wast  slain,  and 
hast  redeemed  us  to  God  by  thy  blood,  out  of  every  kin- 
dred and  tongue  and  people  and  nation,  and  hast  made  us 
unto  our  God  kings  and  priests  :  and  we  shall  reign  on 
the  earth."  Next  after  them,  the  angels  who  form  a  cir- 
cle around,  unable  to  repress  their  sympathy  and  admira- 
tion, to  the  number  of  "  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand 
and  thousands  of  thousands,"  cry  with  a  loud  voice, 
**  Worthy  is  the  Lamb  that  was  slain  to  receive  power 
and  riches  and  wisdom  and  strength  and  honor  and  glory 
and  blessing."  And  finally  the  whole  intelligent  universe 
is  introduced  as  uniting  in  this  glorious  tribute,  and  the 
chorus  that  swells  all  hearts  and  voices  is,  "  Blessing  and 
honor  and  glory  and  power  be  unto  him  that  sitteth  upon 
the  throne,  and  unto  the  Lamb  forever  and  ever." 

This  subject  commends  itself,  in  the  first  place,  to  such 
as  are  permitted  to  indulge  these  hopes  and  anticipations 
for  themselves.  "  What  manner  of  persons  ought  they 
to  be."  What  self-respect,  what  consciousness  of  their 
own  dignity,  should  they  wear  in  all  their  demeanor. 
How  ought  they  to  look  upon  their  brethren  who  are  heirs 


22G 


SUPERIORITY   OF    THE  SAINTS 


with  them  of  the  same  promises.  It  is  to  this  use  that 
the  Apostle  chiefly  applies  the  consideration,  reproving  the 
dissensions  that  had  arisen  among  the  disciples  of  Jesus. 
And  it  calls  this  church  to  a  holy  union.  That  brother 
of  yours  whom  you  wound  by  your  opprobrium,  is  des- 
tined to  the  honors  of  a  judge  in  the  New  Jerusalem. 
That  weak  and  ignorant  child  of  God,  whom  you  pass  by 
as  beneath  your  notice,  has  a  robe  reserved  for  him  and  a 
crown  more  princely  than  earthly  courts  can  boast. 
When  you  meet  him  at  the  table  of  your  Redeemer,  re- 
member he  shall  one  day  be  admitted  to  his  council- 
chamber,  and  drink  with  him  the  new  wine  in  the  king- 
dom of  his  Father.  Angels  may  yet  take  up  the  song 
after  that  slighted  one,  as  they  have  already  rejoiced  over 
his  repentance.  Oh !  my  brethren,  what  strange  beings 
we  are  !  Should  we  go  through  life  with  our  heads  bowed 
down  under  sorrow,  if  we  thought  of  that  tearless  para- 
dise ?  Should  we  become  so  easy  a  prey  to  temptation, 
and  suffer  men  to  speak  lightly  of  our  principles  and  our 
piety,  if  we  reflected  on  the  purity  to  which  we  are  des- 
tined, and  the  high  rank  on  which  we  bring  dishonor? 
Should  we  commune  so  seldom  and  so  coldly  with  our 
Saviour,  if  we  remembered  that  he  is  to  be  one  day  the 
fulness  of  our  joy,  and  that  angels  might  long  for  our 
nearness  to  him  without  attaining  it  1  No  !  my  brethren, 
we  should  walk  erect  and  joyous,  so  that  men  might  know 
us  by  the  dignity  of  our  mien,  by  the  beaming  of  our 
eye,  by  the  eloquent  expression  of  our  features,  all  of 
them  showing  the  world,  that  we  are  already  subsisting  on 
heavenly  food.  We  should  fly  from  sin  as  not  to  be 
glanced  at  by  the  expectants  of  superangelic  purity.  We 
should  cling  to  Jesus  as  if  our  nearness  to  his  throne  in 
heaven  were  to  be  measured  by  our  nearness  to  his  cross 
and  his  altar  on  earth.  Even  here  we  should  catch  some 
strains  of  that  new  song  of  the  redeemed  ;  and  released 


TO  THE    ANGELS.  227 

from  the  fear  of  death,  our  souls  would  often  pant  with 
restless  aspirings  for  that  brighter  and  better  portion  with 
Christ. 

Finally,  our  subject  appeals  in  the  language  of  affec- 
tionate invitation  to  such  as  have  yet  no  title  to  this  bless- 
ed inheritance.  My  friends,  religion  often  comes  to  you 
in  a  voice  of  terror,  and  it  is  but  just  that  tiie  terrors  of 
the  law  should  be  sounded  in  the  ears  of  the  slumbering 
and  the  dead.  But  to-day,  she  comes  arrayed  in  her  best 
white  robe,  and  with  a  voice  of  mild  entreaty.  She  holds 
out  to  you  a  crown  brighter  than  that  of  angels.  She 
brings  to  your  ear  strains  of  celestial  music.  She  beck- 
ons you  to  the  marriage-supper  of  the  Lamb.  Behold! 
all  things  are  now  ready.  And  Jesus  has  expended  his 
most  costly  sacrifice,  that  he  might  purchase  you  a  seat 
at  the  table  of  his  chosen.  Will  you,  can  you,  slight  the 
invitation,  and  turn  away  from  the  price  of  blood,  and 
the  songs  of  heaven,  and  the  voices  of  the  dead,  till  the 
door  shall  be  forever  shut  ? 


NOTE. 

The  two  preceding  discourses  were  finished  Feb.  21,  1840.  In  a 
letter  of  the  same  date  he  says,  "  This  week  I  have  been  writing  a 
double  sei-mon  from  1  Cor.  6:3,*  Know  ye  not  that  we  shall  judge 
angels  ? '  The  thought  of  my  departed  friend,  Mr.  Brown,  was 
constantly  with  me.  I  could  not  refrain  from  making  direct 
allusion  to  him,  as  the  prophetic*  indications  of  his  death  seemed 
to  speak  definitely  of  his  reward  with  the  Shepherd."  The  ser- 
mons were  preached  at  South  Berwick,  May  10,  1840  ;  and  after- 
wards at  Danvers,  Mass.  Under  date  May  15,  1840,  he  writes, 
'♦  Last  Sabbath,  I  preached  the  two  sermons  I  gave  you  to  read, 
and  they  seemed  to  produce  very  considerable  impression  ;  much 
more  than  I  expected.  As  I  was  making  a  pastoral  visit  the  next 
day,  a  lady  said  to  mc,  *  were  you  acquainted  with  that  Mr.  Brown 
of  Boston,  to  whom  you  alluded  in  5'our  afternoon  discourse  ?'  I 
need  not  tell  you  how  the  question  affected  me." 


cue  -^..:- 


SERMON  IV. 


THE  CHARACTER  AND  CONDITION  OF  THE  SINNER 
WHO  IS  NEARLY  A  CHRISTIAN. 


*rHOU  ART  NOT  FAR  FROM  THE  KINGDOM  OF  GOD. — Mark  12  :  34. 

These  words  were  addressed  to  a  well  educated  and 
interesting  young  man,  in  the  crowd  of  cavilers  and 
sceptics,  who  on  a  certain  occasion  had  gathered  around 
Jesus.  He  alone  stood  forth  among  the  captious  and  the 
scoffing,  as  a  sincere  inquirer  for  the  truth.  Most  pleas- 
ing must  have  been  the  spectacle  afforded  by  that  kind 
and  conciliatory  dialogue.  Most  eloquent  must  have 
been  the  approval  which  kindled  in  the  Saviour's  eye,  as 
he  saw  that  *'the  young  man  answered  discreetly."  Beau- 
tiful, yet  not  unmixed  with  sadness  is  the  brief  expression, 
**  Thou  art  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of  God."     • 

As  in  many  other  cases  of  scriptural  narrative,  we  have 
here  but  the  fragment  of  an  individual's  history.  The  sa- 
cred penman  often  gives  but  a  rapid  sketch,  only  sufficient 
to  attract  our  affections,  and  then  draws  the  veil  over  the 
prospect.  We  just  learn  to  love  the  man,  when  we  lose  his 
features  amid  the  crowd  through  which  we  are  rapidly 
hurried ;  and  vve  trace  in  vain  his  progress  and  his  desti- 
nation.    Yet  for  that  very  reason,  more  deep  may  be  the 


THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN. 

impression  and  more  varied  the  instruction  from  the  single 
and  imperfect  portraiture.  Imagination  may  seize  upon 
some  trifling  incident,  and  fill  up  the  outline,  and  yet  the 
conviction  will  remain,  that  the  reality  may  have  been  far 
otherwise.  Thus  to  the  rich  young  man,  to  whom  Jesus 
addressed  the  reproof,  *•  one  thing  thou  lackest,"  we  gen- 
erally attribute  a  continued  and  final  impenitence.  We 
are  distrustful  of  the  fascination  of  wealth,  and  we  doubt 
if  a  youth  would  turn  from  them,  for  the  discipleship  of 
such  a  master.  And  yet  who  knows  that  the  reproof  may 
not  have  sunk  deep  into  his  heart,  and  there  exerted  its 
appropriate  influences,  until  he  sacrificed  his  possessions 
on  the  altar  of  Christ.  Very  different  is  the  customary 
apprehension  of  the  incident  in  our  text.  We  hear  no 
more  of  the  young  inquirer,  and  yet  so  pleased  are  we 
with  his  spirit,  that  we  picture  out  for  him  a  happy  end. 
We  receive  the  impression  that  he  who  knew  so  well  the 
significance  of  the  old  law,  could  not  have  been  long  in 
feeling  the  beauty  of  the  new  ;  that  he  who  was  **  not  far 
from  the  kingdom  of  God,"  would  soon  have  been  a 
member  of  that  blessed  community.  And  yet,  for  aught 
we  know,  a  thousand  incidents  in  the  sluggish  tendencies 
of  the  heart,  in  the  dangers  and  difficulties  attendant  on 
a  profession  of  Christianity,  may  have  conspired  to  retard 
his  progress,  and  death  may  have  overtaken  him  with  his 
hand  on  the  door  of  the  sanctuary,  and  yet  before  he  had 
stepped  within  its  blessed  portal. 

If  Christ  should  appear  in  our  own  day,  I  think  it  be- 
yond a  question,  that  such  a  group  might  be  gathered 
around  him  from  this  congregation.  Here  perhaps  would 
be  the  hardened  and  captious,  striving  like  the  Scribes 
and  Pharisees  to  entangle  him  in  his  talk.  If  they  hear 
not  Moses  and  the  apostles,  neither  would  they  be  per- 
suaded though  Christ  himself  should  appear  to  them. 
Here  too  would  be  the  serious,  well-disposed,  religious 
20 


230  THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN. 

sinner,  attracted  by  the  beauty  of  his  Saviour's  counte- 
nance, and  admiring  the  wisdom  of  his  speech.  You 
might  see  him  following  about  the  divine  instructor, 
watching  his  motions,  hanging  upon  his  lips,  seeking  to 
touch,  if  it  might  be,  the  hem  of  his  garment,  and  at- 
tracting attention  by  his  earnest  gaze,  and  his  sincere  in- 
quiries. Yet  would  there  not  be  a  shade  of  sadness  in 
the  divine  address  to  him,  '*  Thou  art  not  far  from  the 
kingdom  of  God." 

It  becomes  then  an  interesting  topic  of  inquiry,  what 
are  the  characteristics  of  one  to  whom  the  language  of 
the  text  applies,  and  what  are  the  errors  and  dangers  to 
which  he  is  peculiarly  exposed  ? 

I.  I  propose  to  describe  the  individual  who  is  *'  not  far 
from  the  kingdom  of  God." 

First,  He  is  distinguished  for  a  moral  and  amiable  life. 
There  are  many  impenitent  men  whose  characters  have 
been  most  beautifully  cultivated,  by  the  refining  influences 
of  social  life.  To  the  eye  of  the  world,  there  is  a  perfect 
symmetry  in  their  moral  developments.  Quick  are  they 
in  the  apprehension  of  external  duty,  prompt  in  its  per- 
formance. There  is  a  perpetual  sunshine  about  their 
walk.  Under  the  influences  of  these  moral  graces,  there 
is  a  proximate  cultivation  which  may  be  tending  to  holi- 
ness. I  do  not  say  that  of  itself  it  ever  will  or  ever  can 
secure  holiness.  I  do  not  deny  that  it  often  brings  with 
it  a  self-confidence  which  is  the  very  opposite  of  convic- 
tion for  sin.  I  only  mention  it  as  one  among  the  several 
influences,  with  which  God  may  be  moving  upon  the 
heart  of  the  sinner,  and  putting  him  in  the  position  most 
elevated  in  itself,  and  most  favorable  to  conversion.  At 
the  same  time  it  must  be  admitted  that  there  is  no  unva- 
rying uniformity  in  the  divine  operations,  and  that  the 
Spirit  often  impresses  truth  upon  men  of  a  very  diflferent 
character.     We  sometimes   see   the  abandoned   suddenly 


THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN.  231 

and  in  a  moment  rescued  from  the  lowest  depths  of  vice. 
The  very  flagrancy  of  the  crime,  the  very  awfulness  of 
the  blasphemy,  the  very  solitude  in  which  the  criminal 
finds  himself  an  outcast  from  society,  may  be  the  means 
of  awakening  the  horrors  of  conscience,  and  sending  him 
a  trembling  penitent  to  the  cross.  The  immoral  man 
must  not  feel  obliged  to  wait  until  he  has  corrected  his 
moral  habits  and  cultivated  his  tastes  before  he  gives  his 
heart  to  God,  but  he  should  be  urged  to  shake  off  his  vice 
and  his  impenitence  together,  and  at  once  to  become  a 
Christian.  Yet  such  a  one  could  not  be  appropriately 
described  as  **  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of  God."  It  is 
the  greatest  miracle  of  divine  mercy  that  he  is  ever  saved. 
The  tendencies  of  his  habits  are  all  to  put  far  off  the  pe- 
riod of  his  conversion.  He  is  enervating  his  susceptibili- 
ties, and  blunting  his  conscience,  and  barring  up  the  av- 
enues through  which  religion  might  enter  his  soul.  If  by 
divine  grace  such  a  brand  is  plucked  from  the  burning, 
there  is  no  moral  proximity  of  his  previous  to  his  subse- 
quent condition.  Only  to  those  can  our  text  apply  who 
are  exercising  their  higher  susceptibilities  upon  what 
there  is  of  good  in  the  objects  of  a  virtuous  life.  To  the' 
man  who  is  scrupulously  living  up  to  the  relations  of  so- 
ciety, who  sincerely  designs  to  be  a  good  father,  a  useful 
citizen,  an  honorable  and  benevolent  man  ;  who  has  a 
heart  as  warm  and  pure  and  kind  as  we  sometimes  see 
even  in  the  unregenerate ;  to  such  a  one  can  be  most 
forcibly  presented  the  importance  of  fidelity  in  his  rela- 
tions to  God.  He,  whose  conscience  is  sensitive  to  viola- 
tions of  moral  duty,  and  who  makes  rectitude  and  honor 
the  rule  of  his  outward  conduct,  might  be  expected  to 
open  his  heart  most  readily  to  the  reproofs  of  the  divine 
law,  and  most  promptly  to  cease  from  a  career  as  base  as 
it  is  sinful.  Such  a  one  may  be  said,  so  far  as  moral 
.  character  is  concerned,  to  be  **  not  far  from  the  kingdom 
of  God." 


232  THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN. 

Secondly,  He  is  a  believer  in  the  fundamental  doctrines 
of  Christianity. 

Morality  presents  little  claim  to  the  character  described 
in  our  text,  if  it  be  joined  with  unbelief  That  is  enough 
to  counteract  all  the  good  tendencies  of  amiable  and  vir- 
tuous life.  Ordinarily  faith  and  goodness,  (I  mean  what 
the  world  calls  goodness,)  go  hand  in  hand,  and  this  is 
well  for  those  who  would  establish  the  political  expedi- 
ency of  correct  belief  And  yet  as  if  to  show  what  an- 
tagonist powers  there  are  ever  in  human  nature,  the  world 
has  seen  some  splendid  examples  of  private  and  public 
virtue  conjoined  with  monstrous  errors  in  religion.  Such 
a  one  is  very  far  from  the  kingdom  of  God.  His  suscep- 
tibilities may  work  right  in  their  sphere,  but  the  sphere 
is  wrong.  His  conscience  may  be  most  accurate  and 
regular  in  its  action,  but  it  is  under  the  guidance  of  a 
perverted  understanding,  and  supplied  with  inadequate 
data  for  its  judgments.  His  moral  system  has  lost  its  bal- 
ance. The  wheels  move  regularly,  but  wrong.  If  such 
a  one  is  converted,  it  is  because  conscience  will  some- 
times assert  for  the  moment  its  supremacy  over  the  under- 
standing, and  religion  will  press  its  way  through  some  se- 
cret crevices  to  the  heart,  in  spite  of  the  mailed  unbelief 
which  invests  it.  If  we  sometimes  see  individuals  de- 
nying some  of  the  essential  doctrines  of  Christianity  un- 
til after  their  conversion,  such  cases  are  extremely  rare, 
and  all  the  previous  probabilities  are  against  them.  Or- 
dinarily we  must  believe  before  we  are  baptized  with  the 
Spirit.  We  are  sanctified  through  the  truth.  Not  that 
every  mystery  of  religion  is  to  be  comprehended — not 
that  every  dogma  of  the  schools  is  to  be  subscribed  to — 
not  that  the  most  spiritual  and  elevated  doctrines  of  our 
faith  can  ever  be  fully  appreciated  by  the  carnal  heart. 
But  it  is  demanded  that  there  should  be  a  speculative  as- 
sent to  all   the   fundamental   truths  of  our  religion— such 


THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN.  233 

truths  as  relate  to  the  character  and  law  of  God,  the  na- 
ture and  duty  and  destiny  of  the  human  soul,  the  redemp- 
tion provided  by  Jesus  Christ.  And  he  who  admits  that 
he  is  a  sinner,  that  his  duty  is  to  become  holy,  and  that 
his  only  hope  for  pardon  is  in  the  merits  of  Jesus — such 
a  one  so  far  as  religious  opinion  is  concerned,  is  "  not  far 
from  the  kingdom  of  God." 

Thirdly,  He  who  is  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of  God 
has  a  determination  to  become  a  Christian  at  some  future 
time. 

The  cold  assent  of  the  understanding  to  the  truths  of 
religion,  may  be  given  by  one  who  is  in  fact  very  far 
from  the  kingdom  of  God.  There  are  many  men  of 
exemplary  morality  and  unexceptionable  orthodoxy,  who 
never  dream  of  receiving  any  practical  lessons  from  the 
doctrines  of  their  faith.  The  truths  they  admit,  do  not 
go  down  into  the  depths  of  the  soul,  to  awaken  feeling, 
to  stimulate  to  resolution,  to  gird  for  action.  Particularly 
is  this  true  of  many  intellectual  sinners.  They  acknowl- 
edge the  grandeur  of  our  religious  scheme,  they  bow 
down  in  speculative  humility  before  the  doctrines  of  the 
cross,  they  love  to  exercise  their  powers  upon  the  great 
themes  of  the  Bible,  but  of  a  personal  appeal  to  the  heart 
from  all  this  array  of  light  they  are  never  sensible. 
Practical  religion,  they  imagine,  will  do  well  enough  for 
the  lower  order  of  minds,  but  for  themselves  no  melting 
entreaty  ever  sounds  in  their  ears,  "  Seek  ye  my  face," 
to  which  the  soul  responds,  ••  thy  face  Lord  will  I  seek." 
Neither  can  this  description  apply  to  that  large  class  who 
cherish  some  vague  aind  distant  hope  of  heaven,  with  no 
definite  idea  of  the  means  of  obtaining  it ;  who  cheat 
themselves  with  dreams  of  a  reward,  while  they  think  not 
of  girding  for  the  only  effort  which  can  secure  it.  To 
such  characters  our  text  has  no  application.  They  are 
like  the  man  whom  the  pilgrim  saw  crossing  the  river  of 
20* 


234  THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN. 

death  in  a  ferry  boat,  instead  of  breasting  its  current,  and 
feeling  its  dark  waves  pass  over  him.  No  angels  meet 
him  on  the  shore — no  scroll  is  in  his  bosom — no  gate 
opens  at  his  knocking.  But  to  those  whom  the  doctrines 
of  our  religion  approach  with  a  personal  appeal,  to  whom 
the  cross  gives  a  tender  conscience,  who  feel  constrained 
at  times  to  follow  in  the  way  of  duty,  though  it  be  with 
trembling  hesitation,  and  who  keep  the  eye  steadily  fixed 
on  the  strait  gate  with  a  determination  to  enter  it  before 
they  die ; — to  such  Christ  comes  with  the  address  in  our 
text.  And  such  a  one,  so  far  as  general  purpose  is  con- 
cerned, is  "  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of  God." 

Fourthly,    He    is    diligent    in    using    the    means   of 
grace. 

A  distant  and  vague  resolution,  if  it  call  for  no  imme- 
diate effort,  is  not  enough  to  meet  the  description  in  the 
text.  Nay,  so  far  as  it  is  prospective,  it  may  be  the  very 
means  of  fixing  the  sinner  in  his  condition  of  stupidity, 
and  making  procrastination  the  thief  and  the  murderer  of 
his  eternal  interests.  But  there  are  moments  in  the  his- 
tory of  every  sinner  when  the  resolution  just  described 
assumes  a  definite  form,  and  the  claims  of  God  press 
themselves  with  immediateness  upon  the  soul.  At  such 
an  hour  sin  looks  terrible  to  the  eye.  The  memory  of 
past  ingratitude  and  impenitence,  and  the  consciousness 
of  present  guilt,  sit  brooding  upon  the  soul,  and  at  times 
weigh  it  down  almost  with  the  burden  of  despair.  The 
long  neglected  Bible  becomes  the  chief  companion,  and 
there  are  lines  of  light  upon  all  its  pages,  blazing  in  upon 
the  conscience,  kindling  its  terrors  of  retribution,  or 
demanding  the  instant  performance  of  duty.  The  house 
of  God  wears  an  aspect  of  sombre  solemnity,  and  the 
voice  of  the  preacher  stirs  up  depths  in  the  soul  which 
have  never  before  been  reached.  The  Spirit  of  God  is 
very  near,  and   angels  are  watching  for  the  result  of  the 


THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN.  235 

moral  conflict.  The  sinner  feels  that  the  harvest  season 
of  his  soul  has  arrived,  and  he  is  determined  not  to  let  it 
pass  by  unimproved.  He  prays  with  an  agony  of  soul, 
lest  the  Spirit  leave  him  to  hardness  of  heart,  and  final 
reprobation.  And  such  a  one  is  in  possession  of  the 
chief  characteristic  of  an  almost  Christian  ;  and  so  far 
as  the  ordinary  preliminaries  of  conversion  are  con- 
cerned, he  is  certainly  "  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of 
God." 

I  have  thus  set  before  you,  my  friends,  the  traits  which 
distinguish  one  who  is  "  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of 
God."  He  who  is  marked  by  only  one  of  these  qualities, 
may  be  favorably  situated  so  far  as  that  one  is  concerned, 
but  by  the  absence  of  others,  the  good  influence  may  be 
counteracted,  and  he  may  be  set  with  his  face  and  his 
footsteps  downward.  Chiefly  on  him  who  combines  all 
these  characteristics  would  the  Saviour  turn  his  affection- 
ate gaze,  and  to  the  moral,  orthodox,  sensitive,  convicted 
sinner,  would  address  the  language  of  the  text.  To  such 
a  one,  most  tender  and  affectionate  should  be  our  appeal. 
Our  hearts  yearn  over  him  with  peculiar  fondness.  We 
gaze  with  pleasure  on  his  pure  life,  the  faith  he  embraces 
is  the  light  of  our  souls,  we  love  to  avail  ourselves  of  a 
heart  so  open  to  the  truth,  and  above  all  we  rejoice  that 
he  seems  in  earnest  for  the  salvation  of  his  soul.  Yet 
we  rejoice  with  trembling.  Not  for  worlds  would  we 
have  him  rush  into  a  career  of  vice,  or  become  the  victim 
of  error,  or  steel  his  heart  against  the  personal  appeals  of 
the  gospel,  or  relapse  into  his  old  stupidity  and  indiffer- 
ence. But  we  tremble  for  him,  lest  his  promising  position 
become  the  grave  of  his  soul. 

II.  I  proceed  therefore  to  point  out  some   errors  and 
dangers  incident  to  the  condition  described  in  the  text. 

First,  This  condition  does  not  imply,  as  is  often  sup- 
posed, the  commencement  of  holiness  in  the  heart. 


236  THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN. 

I-  The  error  on  this  point  is  more  frequently  a  practical 
than  a  speculative  one.  The  line  of  distinction  between 
the  Christian,  and  the  awakened,  conscientious  and  out- 
wardly obedient  sinner,  is  to  many  minds  exceedingly 
narrow.  It  seems  hard  to  treat  him  like  a  miserable 
rebel  against  God.  There  is  a  disposition  to  mistake  his 
seriousness  and  tenderness  of  spirit  for  the  first  breathings 
of  true  religion,  to  feel  that  his  load  of  guilt  is  in  part 
removed,  that  he  is  already  within  the  threshold  of  the 
kingdom.  But  what  is  religion  ?  Does  it  consist  in 
fidelity  to  the  obligations  of  social  life,  while  the  love  of 
God  is  absent  from  the  soul  ?  Does  it  enthrone  itself  in 
the  intellect,  to  receive  with  a  cold  assent,  the  truths  of  the 
gospel,  while  the  heart  sends  back  no  beatings  of  sympa- 
thy for  the  holy  theme?  Does  it  waste  itself  in  purposes 
of  amendment,  while  sin  still  holds  the  life  in  its  iron 
grasp  ?  Or  does  it  beat  about  in  feverish  exertions  after 
holiness,  and  mad  conflicts  with  the  moral  enemy,  which 
only  prove  the  desperateness  of  a  long  cherished  deprav- 
ity, and  the  depth  of  a  still  lingering  fondness  ?  No ! 
religion  lives  not  in  one  or  all  of  these  previous  states. 
It  acknowledges  no  fellowship  with  the  virtue  which  can 
subsist  in  the  depraved  nature  of  man.  It  stands  aloof 
from  every  moral  exercise,  which  would  take  it  by  the 
hand,  and  press  it  into  unholy  union  with  itself  It  will 
accept  of  nothing  short  of  an  entire  consecration  to  God. 
It  will  not  divide  the  throne  of  the  affections  with  any 
other  claimant.  Its  mastery  must  be  supreme  or  not  at 
all.  To  him  who  is  not  yet  its  subject,  whatever  be  his 
moral  position,  it  comes  only  with  the  stern,  undeviating 
command,  repent — turn — live.  It  has  no  preparatory 
services  to  enjoin,  no  walking  in  the  way  to  the  way 
which  it  can  encourage.  It  knows  no  compromise  or 
treaty  with  him  who  is  **  not  far  from  the  kingdom  of 
God."     Moral  sinner,  it  comes  to  thee,  stripping  off  the 


THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN.  98f 

beautiful  robe  with  which  thou  hast  hidden  thy  deformity, 
and  commanding  thee  to  heal  thy  wounded  heart.  Be- 
lieving sinner,  it  comes  to  thee,  showing  how  superficial 
and  empty  is  thy  faith,  and  commanding  thee  to  show  thy 
faith  by  thy  works.  Resolving  sinner,  it  has  a  voice  for 
thee,  ringing  in  thine  ear  the  death-knell  of  thy  hopes  for 
the  future,  and  bidding  thee  this  instant,  resolve  and  do. 
And  for  thee,  convicted  one,  it  has  ten  thousand  voices  of 
entreaty  and'  alarm.  They  sound  in  thine  ear  amid  the 
worship  of  the  sanctuary,  they  break  forth  from  hills  and 
forests  as  thou  walkest  abroad  among  the  speaking  works 
of  thy  Father.  In  the  retirement  of  the  closet,  they 
come  swelling  up  in  whispers  of  despair,  and  they  startle 
thy  slumbers  in  the  visions  of  the  night.  Say,  sinner,  do 
they  bring  thee  the  language  of  comfort  and  complacency, 
as  to  one  already  at  peace  with  God,  or  do  they  not  hover 
with  raven-wing  about  thy  soul,  as  if  determined  to  give 
thee  no  peace  till  thou  hast  done  the  great  duty. 

Secondly,  This  condition  does  not  necessarily  lead  to 
true  religion. 

There  are  many  who  admit  that  these  preparatory  steps 
do  not  involve  the  elements  of  piety,  yet  imagine  that 
they  infallibly  secure  them.  According  to  such,  regene- 
ration is  a  gradual  change,  involving  a  series  of  moral 
processes.  He,  who  steps  within  the  magic  range, 
although  he  is  not  supposed  to  be  converted  until  he  has 
crossed  its  utmost  limit,  is  considered  safe  from  the 
further  accumulation  of  guilt,  and  sure  of  attaining  the 
desired  goal.  Such  persons  seem  to  suppose  that  the 
more  protracted  the  convictions,  the  more  radical  and 
thorough  will  be  the  conversion.  They  are  suspicious  of 
these  sudden  changes.  They  encourage  the  awakened 
sinner  to  press  on  perseveringly  in  the  good  way  he  has 
begun,  and  he  may  hope  for  light  in  the  end.  But  what 
saith  the  Scripture  1     •'  The  word   is  nigh  thee,  even  in 


238  THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN, 

thy  mouth  and  in  thy  heart."  Our  religion  is  one  which 
calls  for  no  pilgrimage  to  the  holy  sepulchre,  for  no  long 
routine  of  forms  and  penances,  for  no  imposition  of  holy 
hands,  or  external  ordinances,  before  it  can  be  received 
into  the  heart.  Upon  the  conscience  of  every  moral 
being,  if  it  press  at  all,  it  presses  this  instant  with  its 
whole  weight  of  obligation.  And  every  sinner  who 
lingers  on  the  way,  or  hurries  on  without  hurrying  in, 
though  his  face  be  towards  the  house  of  refuge,  is  render- 
ing his  arrival  more  uncertain  by  each  moment's  delay. 
How  can  we  encourage  such  a  one  as  free  from  spiritual 
danger,  when  we  know  that  he  is  a  sinner  against  God  ? 
How  can  we  hold  out  to  him  the  certain  prospect  of 
pardon  and  salvation,  when  we  know  that  life  is  not 
sure  beyond  the  present  moment,  and  should  he  be 
hurried  unregenerate,  though  on  the  way  to  conversion, 
before  the  bar  of  his  Maker,  the  Bible  furnishes  no  plea 
with  regard  to  these  indifferent  acts,  and  assigns  no 
compartment  in  heaven  to  the  almost  Christian.  How 
can  we  whisper  peace  to  his  anxiety,  when  we  know  that 
the  last  struggle  in  the  moral  nature  is  perhaps  the  most 
fearful  of  all,  and  that  a  thousand  temptations  to  fatal 
delay  or  to  obstinate  relapse  may  be  environing  him. 
Satan  rages,  for  his  time  is  short — and  who  knows  but 
that  the  principles  of  the  old  man  inflamed  in  the  conflict, 
may  drag  him  back  to  hardened  impenitence,  and  his  last 
state  shall  become  worse  than  the  first. 

Thirdly,  The  condition  is  one  which  involves  peculiar 
guilt. 

Guilt  cannot  be  estimated  absolutely.  We  have  no 
right  to  measure  by  rule  the  sin  of  any  man,  or  to  com- 
pare mathematically  the  deserts  of  one  condition  of  guilt 
with  those  of  another.  Yet  we  are  authorized  to  draw 
out  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  aggravation  which 
accompany  each  case  of  iniquity,  and  we  may  say  that 


THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN. 

in  some  respects  one  sinner  is  more  culpable  than 
another.  One  of  our  rules  of  moral  judgment  is,  that 
blame  is  proportioned  to  the  degree  of  light  enjoyed  by 
the  criminal.  Not  that  we  exculpate  the  exasperated 
man,  who  commits  a  murder  while  his  reason  is  deranged 
by  passion,  or  that  we  place  him  on  the  whole  in  a  lower 
gradation  of  wickedness  than  the  assassin  who  proceeds 
deliberately  to  the  deed  of  death.  But  we  locate  the 
chief  guilt  of  the  involuntary  transgressor  farther  back, 
and  we  say  that  in  the  act  itself  the  man  who  strikes 
coolly,  while  all  the  principles  of  his  better  nature  are 
rallying  for  his  rescue,  overcomes  more  moral  barriers  in 
his  way  to  ruin,  and  is  so  far  a  guiltier  man.  Just  so  is 
it  in  the  case  of  the  sinner.  The  awakened  and  anxious 
persist  in  impenitence,  amid  clearer  and  stronger  induce- 
ments to  immediate  rectitude  than  they  who  are  slumber- 
ing on  in  the  lethargy  of  sin.  We  do  not  say  that  the 
moral  man  is  absolutely  more  culpable  and  degraded  than 
the  vicious  and  abandoned.  Far  otherwise  may  be  our 
belief;  far  otherwise  may  be  the  view  of  the  all-seeing 
Judge.  But  inasmuch  as  in  him,  the  gospel  comes  in 
contact  with  healthier  sensibilities,  with  a  nature  acute  in 
its  perception  of  duty,  with  habits  of  prompt  obedience, 
so  far  it  is  easier  for  him  to  comply  with  the  demands  of 
heaven,  and  so  far  it  involves  a  greater  sin,  if  he  turn 
away  from  them  with  scorn  and  neglect.  So  too  the 
believer  of  gospel  truth  may  be  far  less  degraded  in  his 
moral  nature,  and  an  object  of  greater  complacency,  than 
the  votary  of  idolatrous  and  obscure  rites,  or  the  victim 
of  an  erroneous  fiith.  Yet,  against  him  there  is  this  one 
plea  of  resisting  greater  light,  and  from  the  shrines  of 
barbarous  idolatry  and  the  sanctuaries  of  a  corrupted 
faith,  there  shall  rise  up  multitudes  to  utter  against  him 
the  fearful  malediction,  *•  You  knew  your  duty,  but  you 
would  not  do  it."     And,  my   hearers,   I   would  not  for  a 


240  THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN. 

moment  detract  from  the  guilt  of  hardened  and  stupid 
impenitence,  nor  do  I  know  of  a  condition  more  awful, 
than  that  of  him  who  goes  to  the  bar  of  God  from  the 
long  unbroken  slumbers  of  spiritual  death.  And  yet 
there  is  one  view  in  which  the  convicted  sinner  presents 
a  spectacle  more  odious,  and  stands  charged  with  higher 
criminality.  He  is  in  the  midst  of  a  flood  of  light  which 
sends  no  rays  into  the  prison  house  of  the  careless  and 
secure.  On  his  soul  there  beams  new  lustre  from  the 
throne  of  a  forgiving  Father.  To  his  vision  is  revealed 
the  cross  of  Christ,  with  a  glory  encircling  it  such  as  the 
world  cannot  behold,  and  the  meek  sufferer  seems  to  fix 
on  him  an  eye  of  peculiar  fondness.  Voices  of  unwonted 
eloquence  blend  themselves  with  the  voice  of  his  con- 
science, when  the  Spirit  and  the  bride  at  this  solemn  hour 
whisper  their  persuasive  invitation.  Sin  no  longer  wears 
its  flattering  and  attractive  garb.  Hell  sends  in  its  notes 
of  warning,  and  bids  him  seize  the  present  instant.  On 
which  side  soever  he  turns,  he  beholds  a  beckoning  hand, 
and  hears  a  beseeching  voice.  And  yet  he  sins.  He  is 
an  awakened  sinner — but  an  awakened  sinner.  Oh !  is 
not  this  guilt — is  it  not  madness  1  Is  it  not  an  insult  to 
the  throne  of  grace,  and  the  cross  of  Christ,  that  unveil 
to  him  their  matchless  splendors  ?  Is  it  not  a  new  thorn 
in  the  Saviour's  crown,  or  a  new  nail  in  his  hands  and 
feet  1  Is  it  not  a  fighting  against  the  gracious  Spirit  of 
God?  Is  it  not  a  planting  of  the  soul,  in  the  midst  of 
all  that  could  allure  or  urge,  only  to  show  the  desperate 
obstinacy  of  its  sin,  and  to  heap  upon  itself  new  meas- 
ures of  the  wrath  of  God  ? 

Finally,  The  misery  of  those  who  perish  from  such  a 
condition  will  be  peculiarly  great. 

It  has  already  been  shown,  that  there  is  no  security  of 
a  favorable  result.  On  the  contrary,  there  may  be  a 
relapse   to   impenitence,    and   death    may   overtake   the 


THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN.  241 

sinner  before  he  has  found  peace  with  God.  Peculiarly 
embittered  must  be  his  recollections  of  the  past,  when  he 
finds  his  gloomy  account  sealed  up.  If  there  be  an  hour 
of  agony  to  the  soul,  it  is  when  it  calls  up  the  successive 
steps  of  its  own  dark  history,  and  finds  how  near  it  often 
was  to  the  very  highway  of  salvation.  So  close  upon 
heaven — and  still  it  is  torn  away  with  no  prospect  of 
restoration. 

In  one  of  the  terrible  calamities,  lately  occurring  on 
our  Northern  waters,  there  was  a  man  who  perished  in 
circumstances  of  peculiar  aggravation.  He  had  been 
long  absent  from  his  native  land,  and  the  home  of  his 
affection.  For  years  he  had  been  wrestling  with  dangers, 
at  a  distance  from  those  whom  he  loved.  He  had  met 
death  in  the  uproar  of  storm  and  shipwreck,  but  death 
had  not  claimed  him  for  its  victim.  He  had  been  caught 
in  the  hideous  embrace  of  the  pestilence,  but  he  con- 
quered there.  Peril  and  disease  chased  after  him  in  his 
journeyings,  but  a  charm  seemed  to  hang  about  his 
person,  and  he  escaped  scarred  but  vigorous.  And  now, 
full  of  gratitude  for  his  past  deliverances,  and  buoyant 
with  anticipations  of  a  joyous  meeting,  he  was  hastening 
home  from  his  long  exile,  to  the  friends  that  would  glow 
more  brightly  at  his  return.  But  a  fearful  death  was 
in  reserve  for  him  on  the  very  threshold  of  his  home. 
At  an  hour  when  he  least  thought  of  it,  yet  an  hour  so 
hemmed  in  by  an  all-wise  Providence  from  every  prospect 
of  relief,  and  when  the  opposing  elements  seemed  com- 
bined for  the  general  destruction,  he  saw  that  he  must 
die.  As  he  sunk  into  the  cold  wave,  and  the  torpor  of 
death  stole  over  him,  his  eye  seemed  to  discern  upon  the 
neighboring  shore,  the  glimmering  of  his  own  fireside, 
and  he  could  almost  hear  the  welcome  voices  of  those 
who  looked  out  at  the  lattice  for  his  coming.  Alas!  it 
was  a  hard  thing  thus  to  perish,  just  as  his  arms  were 
21 


242  THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN. 

Stretched  out  to  embrace  the  long  lost  and  almost  recov- 
ered treasures  of  his  heart.  And,  my  friends,  do  you  not 
suppose  he  would  rather  have  found  his  grave  in  mid 
ocean,  than  on  the  very  shores  of  his  nativity  ?  Would 
it  not  have  been  happier  for  him  to  sink  down  under 
lingering  disease,  so  far  away  from  the  hearts  that 
yearned  over  him  that  his  last  hours  would  have  been 
haunted  by  no  visions  of  their  presence,  than  to  lay  his 
head  on  that  icy  pillow,  while  they  whom  he  sought 
seemed  to  bend  over  him  so  closely,  yet  unable  to  smooth 
his  rough  bed,  or  to  ease  the  pathway  for  his  burial. 

And  so  it  is  with  the  man  who  comes,  like  the  prodigal, 
to  the  threshold  of  his  paternal  mansion,  to  the  sight  of 
his  father's  outstretched  arms,  only  to  linger  and  perish 
before  he  reaches  the  safe  enclosure,  or  the  forgiving 
embrace.  He  goes  down  to  perdition,  with  the  songs  of 
heaven  sounding  in  his  ears,  and  amid  the  visions  of 
angels  taking  up  their  harps  to  joy  over  his  repentance. 
Sad,  sad  indeed  is  the  last  farewell  he  bids  to  "  the  peace 
that  passeth  knowledge."  And  agonizing  will  be  the 
reminiscence  of  that  one  spot  in  his  moral  history,  where 
the  influence  of  earth  and  heaven  all  combined  to  bring 
him  to  the  very  gate  of  paradise,  while  now  he  finds 
himself  a  more  miserable  outcast,  in  consequence  of  the 
elevation  from  which  he  falls. 

And  now,  brother,  thou  to  whom  Christ  addresses  the 
language  of  the  text,  "  Thou  art  not  far  from  the  kingdom 
of  God."  I  wander  not  from  the  spirit  of  his  affection, 
when  I  sound  these  warnings  in  thine  ears.  I  mean  it 
not  unkindly  when  I  tell  thee, — Thou  art  not  a  Christian, 
and  thou  art  not  sure  of  becoming  a  Christian.  New 
guilt  is  staining  thy  garment,  and  heart-rending  will  be 
thy  doom  unless  it  be  speedily  washed  away.  In  Christ's 
stead,  I  stand  here  to-day  to  beseech  thee  without  delay 
to  become  reconciled  to  God.     In  Christ's  name,  I  assure 


THE    ALMOST    CHRISTIAN.  5143 

thee  of  the  fondness  with  which  the  church  contemplates 
thy  character  and  condition — not  vile  and  odious,  but 
moral  and  kind;  not  faithless,  but  believing;  not  cold 
and  careless,  but  determined  and  anxious.  She  would 
cherish  thy  virtues,  and  confirm  thy  faith,  and  light  up 
thy  face  with  the  smiles  of  hope.  Yet  it  is  for  such  as 
thee  that  the  church  weeps,  and  bows  down  in  the  dust, 
and  can  give  herself  no  rest,  in  thy  lingering  delay. 
There  is  danger  on  every  side  of  thee  but  one.  If  thou 
return  to  thine  old  sin,  certain  ruin  yawns  for  thee,  for  if 
such  as  thou  scarcely  escape,  what  shall  become  of  the 
hardened  and  the  abandoned.  If  thou  stand  still,  "  sin 
lieth  at  the  door,"  ready  to  rush  in  upon  thy  slumbers 
and  bind  thee  with  new  chains.  If  thou  press  on  in  thy 
present  strugglings,  thou  hast  but  found  new  avenues  to 
death,  and  a  new  weight  is  accumulating  on  thy  soul. 
There  is  but  one  way  for  thee,  and  that  is — Repent. 
There  is  but  one  hope  for  thee,  and  that  is  the  grace  of 
God.  "  Oh  !  Israel,  thou  hast  destroyed  thyself — but  in 
me  is  thy  help."     In  Thee,  blessed  God,  is  their  help. 


NOTE. 

The  preceding  sermon,  the  fifth  which  Mr.  Homer  ever  wrote, 
was  the  first  which  he  ever  preached.  It  was  delivered  at  Sher- 
burne, Mass.,  March  29,  1840 ;  afterwards  at  Boston,  Salem  St. 
church;  at  South  Berwick,  May  17,  1840;  at  Dover,  N.  H. ;  at 
Danvers,  Mass. ;  at  Buffalo,  N.  Y. ;  and  at  Exeter,  N.  H. 


SERMON  V 


FITNESS  OF  THE  MEDIATOR  TO  BE  THE  JUDGE  OF 
THE  WORLD. 


AND   HATH   GIVEN  HIM   AUTHORITY  TO   EXECUTE   JUDGMENT  ALSO,    BE- 
CAUSE HE  IS  THE  SON  OF  MAN.— John  5  :  27. 


The  phrase  "  Son  of  Man,"  here  denotes  the  Messiah- 
ship  of  Jesus.  It  is  a  title  borrowed  from  the  circum- 
stance of  his  humanity,  although  not  exclusively  referring 
to  that  part  of  his  nature.  The  Son  of  God  was  most 
fond  of  describing  himself  by  this  humble  appellation, 
and  it  is  remarkable  that  in  the  New  Testament,  it  is 
used  in  this  sense  by  no  other  person. 

The  Scriptures  very  clearly  predict  that  a  day  is  coming 
when  God  shall  judge  the  world ;  and  they  uniformly  at- 
tribute to  Christ  the  office  of  presiding  on  that  august 
occasion.  They  speak  of  him  as  '*  ordained  of  God  to  be 
the  judge  of  quick  and  dead."  And  our  text  states 
the  reason  of  the  divine  appointment,  "  because  he  is  the 
Son  of  Man."  It  will  be  the  object  of  this  discourse  to 
develop  more  fully  the  idea  of  the  text,  and  to  show  that 

The  office  of  the  final  judge  is  appropriated  with  pecu- 
liar fitness  to  the  Messiah. 

There  are  three  great  aspects  in  which   Jesus  the  Mes- 


CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OP    THE    WORLD.  245 

siah  is  presented  to  our  view.  He  is  God,  he  is  man,  he 
is  God-man.  The  Scriptures  describe  these  qualities  as 
distinct  and  perfect,  and  yet  uniting  in  mysterious  har- 
mony in  the  same  individual.  He  is  represented  as  God. 
The  name  of  the  Supreme  is  attached  to  him  under  cir- 
cumstances that  admit  of  no  qualification.  The  works 
ascribed  to  him  are  such  as  extorted  from  the  Psalmist  the 
devout  acknowledgment — ''Jehovah,  how  excellent  thy 
name  in  all  the  earth."  The  analysis  of  his  attributes 
proves  that  he  possesses  qualities  such  as  could  be  shared 
only  by  the  Infinite  and  the  Eternal.  And  all  men  are 
commanded  to  "  honor  the  Son,  even  as  they  honor  the 
Father."  He  is  represented  as  man.  History,  profane 
as  well  as  sacred,  has  recorded  his  name  as  that  of  one 
who  trode  upon  the  earth,  and  wore  the  form  and  features 
and  spoke  the  language  of  our  nature.  From  infancy  to 
manhood  he  grew  up,  his  body  and  soul  maturing  together. 
He  loved  as  a  friend,  as  a  brother,  as  a  son  ;  as  a  mortal, 
he  suffered  and  bled  and  died.  Nor  has  he  yet  lost  his 
human  identity,  for  we  are  told  that  those  who  seek  his 
glorified  person,  shall  discern  in  his  scarred  features  the 
lineaments  of  his  human  history  ;  and  even  in  his  spirit- 
ual body,  "  he  bears  about  the  marks  of  his  dying."  He 
is  represented  still  further  as  not  God  merely,  not  man 
merely,  but  an  inexplicable  union  of  the  two,  by  which 
mystery  alone  he  discharged  the  functions  of  his  high 
office.  As  a  God,  he  could  not  have  suffered  ;  as  a  man, 
his  suffering  would  have  been  no  acceptable  sacrifice. 
Only  as  he  wrapped  the  mantle  of  his  humanity  about  his 
incorruptible  Godhead,  was  he  fitted  to  stand  forth  as  the 
Mediator  and  the  Redeemer  of  man. 

I  propose  to  show  that  in  each  of  these  three  respects, 
Christ  is  peculiarly  fitted  to  judge  the  world  at  the  last 
day. 

I.  He  possesses,  in  his  divine  nature,  qualities  which  fit 
21* 


246 


CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD. 


him  for  the  office.  Let  us  consider  how  admirably  his 
divine  attributes  are  suited  to  the  judicial  function,  such 
as  we  see  it  among  men. 

In  an  earthly  judge,  we  look  for  uncommon  attainments 
in  wisdom  and  knowledge.  We  require  that  he  should 
be  one  who  has  thoroughly  mastered  the  principles  of  hu- 
man law,  and  traced  their  varied  application.  We  expect 
in  him  an  acute  insight  into  the  nature  and  character  of 
man,  so  that  he  may  weigh  testimony  in  an  even  balance, 
and  estimate  guilt  with  a  discriminating  judgment. 

Accordingly  we  dignify  with  the  judicial  ermine  chiefly 
such  as  have  attained  a  great  age,  and  have  spent  years 
in  the  study  of  books  and  of  men.  But  how  much  more 
important  are  all  these  qualities  to  the  Judge  of  the  uni- 
verse. Broad  and  deep  as  eternity  are  the  principles  of 
that  law,  which  is  in  the  statute  book  of  the  great  day  of 
account.  Not  only  are  the  splendid  acts  of  men  to  be 
brought  to  light,  such  as  might  be  established  by  the  evi- 
dence of  a  thousand  witnesses ;  but  with  impartial  scruti- 
ny the  small  and  the  great  are  to  be  gathered  around  the 
same  bar,  the  secret  thoughts  that  lay  secluded  in  the 
bosom  shall  receive  sentence  with  that  which  has  been 
published  upon  the  housetop.  The  whole  history  of  the 
world,  including  the  minutest  details  of  each  individual's 
experience,  is  to  be  crowded  into  that  single  day.  The 
long  agitated  questions  in  morals  are  then  to  be  decided  ; 
and  to  each  act  is  to  be  attributed  its  appropriate  charac- 
ter, and  adjudged  its  fit  award.  Where  could  venerable 
experience  be  found  like  the  wisdom  of  Him  who  existed 
before  all  history,  and  from  eternity  has  fixed  his  calm  eye 
on  the  long  and  crowded  future,  as  if  it  were  the  present 
moment.  Who  could  be  better  qualified  for  the  great  of- 
fice, than  he  who  holds  in  his  hands  the  books  of  judg- 
ment ;  of  whom  it  was  said,  that  "  he  needed  not  that 
any  should  testify  of  man,  for  he  knew  what  was  in  man  ;  " 


CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD.  247 

and  who  has  said  of  himself,  "I  am  he  that  searcheth 
the  reins  and  hearts." 

Another  most  important  requisite  of  an  Earthly  judge, 
is  undeviating  integrity.  He  should  be  one  who  not  only 
knows,  but  adheres  to  the  law,  loving  it  with  the  affection 
of  a  most  docile  pupil,  jealous  of  the  slightest  infringe- 
ment of  its  claims,  uniform  in  his  quickness  to  discern 
and  to  punish  crime.  He  should  not  be  one  whose  inter- 
pretation of  the  statute  or  infliction  of  the  penalty  varies 
with  every  shifting  circumstance.  He  must  be  proof 
against  the  most  shining  bribe — unmoved  amid  the  tor- 
rents of  prejudice  or  the  warm  appeals  of  affection. 
Wedded  should  he  be  to  the  law,  constant  in  his  attach- 
ment to  it.  firm  and  manly  in  his  vindication  and  enforce- 
ment of  it.  Still  more  important  is  this  unvarying  firm- 
ness in  the  judge  of  the  universe.  The  influences  of 
hell  combine  themselves  to  jar  the  scales  of  justice  in  his 
hands,  and  from  many  a  surprised  criminal,  there  is  a  cry 
for  mercy  while  the  finger  of  justice  is  pointing  to  his 
doom.  Who  could  stand  in  such  a  scene,  so  like  a  rock, 
as  he  who  has  been  called  "  the  same,  yesterday,  to-day, 
and  forever;  "  and  who  has  sat  enthroned  above  the  shift- 
ing currents  of  time,  the  still,  calm  I  AM.  His  infinite 
spirit  can  be  ruffled  by  no  outward  agitation,  and  his  views 
are  ever  as  clear  as  his  purposes  are  just.  Immutable  in 
his  perfections,  he  is  the  fittest  representative  of  that  law 
which  is  itself  forever  unchanged. 

Still  better  qualified  is  the  judge  for  his  station,  if  he  is 
possessed  of  great  power,  either  in  his  own  person  or  in 
the  government  which  he  serves.  Weak  and  empty 
would  be  the  spectacle  afforded,  if  he  should  assume  his 
high  place,  and  send  forth  his  oracular  decisions,  with  no 
ability  to  enforce  a  compliance  or  inflict  a  penalty.  Such 
a  judgment-seat  would  be  a  laughing-stock.  Vice  would 
stalk   abroad  fearlessly   to  its   work  of  devastation,  and 


248  CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD. 

would  brave  the  venerable  reprover  on  his  very  bench. 
Virtue  would  retire  to  weep  in  secret  places  over  the  inef- 
ficiency of  its  vindication.  And  law,  unable  to  sustain 
its  majesty  or  life,  without  the  nerved  arm  to  execute,  as 
well  as  the  sagacity  and  acumen  to  expound,  would  put 
on  sackcloth  and  ashes,  or  go  down  from  its  mock  throne 
to  a  living  sepulchre.  How  would  the  judge  of  the  earth 
appear,  if  there  were  no  power  in  his  kindling  eye  to 
make  the  wicked  obey  his  mandate — depart.  But  of  him 
we  are  assured  that  "he  is  able,  by  his  mighty  working, 
to  subdue  all  things  unto  himself"  The  powers  that 
throng  around  that  tribunal  for  their  last  conflict  shall  be 
sadly  overcome.  "  He  holds  in  his  hands  the  keys  of 
death  and  of  hell,"  and  he  is  fitted  to  pronounce  the  doom 
of  the  ungodly,  because  he  has  omnipotence  to  execute 
the  sentence. 

Mercy  is  another  most  important  attribute  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  judge.  An  unkind  and  cruel  man  would  take 
delight  in  pushing  the  law  to  a  needless  rigor  ;  he  would 
close  his  eyes  to  the  palliating  circumstances  of  the  crime, 
and  he  would  not  hear  that  mild  injunction  which  even 
the  law  in  all  its  sternness  puts  forth, — Better  is  it  that 
the  guilty  escape,  than  the  innocent  suffer.  Our  concep- 
tion of  the  character  would  be  greatly  heightened,  if  the 
judge  were  one  who  often  endured  great  sacrifices  in  his 
own  person,  that  he  might  extricate  the  unfortunate  from 
embarrassment.  And  we  have  this  quality  most  beautifully 
prominent  in  our  great  and  final  judge.  It  is  divine  love 
that  sits  on  the  awful  seat  of  judgment.  I  speak  not  now 
of  the  love  of  human  sympathy,  but  love  as  it  wells  up  in 
the  Infinite  Spirit,  and  sends  out  its  streams  to  gladden 
and  refresh  the  universe.  Divine  love  it  was  which  sug- 
gested the  great  plan  of  redemption.  And  it  is  fit,  that 
he  who  was  selected  from  all  eternity  to  be  the  peculiar 
development  of  this  blessed  attribute,  in  whom   the  love 


CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD.  249 

of  Jehovah  was  to  array  itself  in  its  brightest  smiles,  and 
welcome  to  its  most  affectionate  embrace,  should  be  em- 
ployed at  last  to  execute  that  law  which  is  founded  on 
love,  and  of  which  the  sternest  features  are  but  needful 
expressions  of  the  same  unceasing  benevolence. 

From  these  considerations  how  appropriate  does  it  seem 
that  a  God  should  judge  the  world,  and  not  an  angel  or  a 
man.  Angels  are  fitted  only  to  be  the  attendants  and 
spectators  of  the  stupendous  scene.  Men  are  but  the 
judged.  To  Jehovah  only  could  the  history  of  the  world 
be  spread  out  as  upon  a  map.  He  alone  is  worthy  to  be 
the  vindicator  of  the  immutable  law.  He  only  can  en- 
force and  execute  the  dreadful  sentence.  He  only  could 
be  trusted  as  mingling  kindness  and  mercy,  with  the  strict- 
ness and  severity  of  his  decisions.  Before  such  as  He, 
with  the  dignity  and  majesty  of  the  infinite  and  supreme, 
heaven  and  hell  may  bow  in  humble  adoration,  and  *'  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth  wail  because  of  him."  Verily 
Jehovah  himself  is  on  the  throne  of  judgment.  None 
but  a  God  could  produce  that  fearful  dissolving  of  the 
elements, 

'*  When  shriveling  like  a  parched  scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll." 

None  but  a  God  could  summon  around  him  the  sleep- 
ers from  their  graves, 

"  When  louder  yet  and  yet  more  dread, 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes  the  dead." 

n.  Christ  possesses,  in  his  Tiuman  nature^  qualities 
which  fit  him  for  the  office  of  judge. 

Certainly,  if  we  were  assured  that  God  himself  were 
our  judge,  none  could  for  a  moment  gainsay  or  resist. 
The  assurance  of  his  infinite  perfections  would  be  a 
pledge  of  the  justness  of  his  awards.  And  if  our  own 
doom  on  the  day  of  account   were  made   known   to  us  in 


250  CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD. 

some  mysterious  and  unusual  way,  every  mouth  would  be 
stopped,  and  the  whole  world  become  guilty  before  God. 
Yet  there  is  something  more  required  than  a  cold  assent 
of  the  understanding  to  abstract  and  invisible  correctness. 
As  we  need  the  incarnate  Deity  to  bring  the  divine  glory 
to  a  level  with  our  comprehension  and  sympathy,  so  we 
need  the  incarnate  Judge  to  influence  us  with  a  power 
more  personal  and  direct,  to  bring  to  the  very  door  of  our 
consciences  the  processes  of  the  great  day,  and  to  make 
us  feel  their  reality,  as  well  as  acknovi^ledge  their  truth. 
Christ  will  in  his  humanity  be  revealed  to  our  bodily 
senses.  We  are  not  to  be  caught  up  in  the  air  to  have  our 
sentence  impressed  upon  us  in  some  strange  and  super- 
natural manner  ;  we  are  to  see  it  written  on  the  lineament 
of  a  human  face — a  face  marred  by  the  toils  and  sorrows 
of  a  life  like  our  own  ;  we  are  to  hear  it  pronounced  by  a 
human  voice,  now  'Mike  the  sound  of  many  waters,"  yet 
identical  with  that  which  once  uttered  the  words  of  meek 
entreaty,  or  of  lowly  prayer.  No  doubt  the  form  of  the 
man  Jesus  will  be  arrayed  in  new  loveliness,  and  assume 
a  lustre  surpassing  that  of  earth,  yet  will  it  retain  to  a 
wonderful  degree  the  marks  of  its  servitude  in  our  nature, 
and  we  shall  gaze  on  it  with  an  intimacy  such  as  we 
could  not  feel  for  the  "  face  of  angels,"  or  the  unclouded 
majesty  of  the  Invisible.  Especially  shall  we  discern  the 
marks  of  his  crucifixion — the  wounds  in  his  hands  and 
feet.  "  Behold  he  cometh  with  clouds,  and  every  eye 
shall  see  him,  and  they  also  which  pierced  him."  "  His 
countenance,"  says  one,  "  shall  be  most  mild  and  peace- 
able towards  the  good,  and  though  the  same,  most  terrible 
towards  the  bad  :  out  of  his  sacred  wounds  shall  issue 
beams  of  light,  toward  the  just,  full  of  love  and  sweet- 
ness, but  unto  sinners  full  of  fire  and  wrath,  who  shall 
weep  bitterly  for  the  evils  which  issue  from  them." 


CHRIST  THE  JUDGE  OF  THE  WORLD.       251 

"  Some, 
They  who  polluted  with  offences  come, 
Behold  hun  as  the  king 
Of  terrors,  black  of  aspect,  red  of  eye. 
Reflecting  back  upon  the  sinful  mind 
Heightened  with  vengeance  and  with  wrath  divine. 
Its  own  inborn  deformity. 
But  to  the  righteous  spirit  how  benign 
His  awful  countenance. 
Where  tempering  justice  with  parental  love, 
Goodness  and  heavenly  grace, 
And  sweetest  mercy  shine." 

Another  circumstance  of  his  humanity,  is  the  fact  that 
he  has  himself  been  a  subject  of  the  law  according  to 
which  he  judges.  He  is  not  taken  like  a  foreigner  from 
some  distant  province  of  Jehovah's  empire,  to  administer 
and  execute  the  law  of  an  unknown  region,  but  he  is  one 
that  heard  its  mandates  in  his  own  ear,  and  felt  its  power 
upon  his  own  life.  Nor  has  he  been  a  subject  merely  of 
this  government,  he  has  been  an  obedient  subject.  The 
paths  of  piety  which  he  now  commends,  he  himself  once 
trod  ;  and  the  sins  he  punishes,  he  himself  once  wrestled 
with  and  conquered.  Not  as  an  angel,  my  brethren,  did 
our  judge  walk  among  us  with  a  nature  too  elevated  to  be 
touched  by  the  corruptions  of  earth.  As  a  man  he  lived, 
frail  and  feeble,  with  a  thousand  avenues  for  sin  opening 
into  his  soul,  and  the  devil  watching  his  opportunity  and 
assailing  him  in  his  hours  of  bodily  and  spiritual  ex- 
haustion, and  yet  he  lived  pure.  Not  a  stain  defaced  that 
human  soul,  not  one  note  of  discord  disturbed  the  moral 
harmony  of  that  life.  Verily  as  he  was  fit  for  our  high 
priest,  in  that  he  was  tempted  in  all  points  like  as  we,  yet 
without  sin,  so  he  is  fit  to  be  our  judge,  in  that  he  can 
say  in  the  presence  of  assembled  nations  around  his  bar, 
— I  was  the  subject  of  this  law.  Principalities  and  pow- 
ers and  a  frail  humanity  conspired  to  make  me  disloyal  in 
my  allegiance,  but  I  was  faithful  unto  death. 

Another  circumstance  which  renders  it  fit  that  a  fellow- 


252  CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD. 

man  should  be  our  judge,  is  the  sympathy  he  would 
feel  for  the  joys  and  woes  of  the  gathered  multitude 
around  his  bar.  He  does  not  invite  the  blessed  to  his  own 
inheritance  as  a  cold  desert  of  justice,  but  rejoices  in 
their  exultation.  He  does  not  drive  the  wicked  into  hell, 
as  one  who  cares  not  for  their  fate,  if  so  be  the  law  is 
glorified.  No  stoical  sternness  will  darken  the  brow  of 
our  judge.  He  is  our  brother,  not  only  related  to  us  by 
ties  of  fellow  humanity,  but  the  most  affectionate  and 
kind  of  our  great  family ;  he  it  is  who  during  his  abode 
in  our  nature  exhibited  a  benevolence  so  expansive,  that 
it  crossed  the  earth,  and  gathered  the  past  and  the  future 
in  its  warm  embrace ;  and  there  shall  not  be  one  among 
the  assembled  millions  so  mean  and  obscure  that  he  can- 
not look  up  into  the  face  of  the  judge  and  say,  he  loved 
me  with  more  than  a  brother's  affection.  And  how  fit  is 
it,  that  he  whose  bosom  beat  for  the  whole  human  race, 
should  be  exalted  at  last  to  be  their  judge.  My  hearers, 
have  you  ever  been  in  court,  when  sentence  of  death  was 
pronounced  against  a  criminal.  As  you  fixed  your  eye 
on  the  cold  rugged  visage  of  the  condemned,  and  marked 
his  unmoved  posture,  and  his  iron  mien,  you  doubted  if  a 
human  heart  could  be  beating  there.  Perhaps  a  quick 
flush  passed  over  his  features,  as  the  word  of  death  reached 
his  ear,  and  then  all  was  calm  and  cold  again.  But  when 
you  gazed  on  the  streaming  eyes  of  the  judge,  and  saw 
his  venerable  frame  agitated  and  quivering  under  the  aw- 
ful responsibility  of  his  mission  ;  when  you  heard  the 
choked  ejaculation,  "  May  God  Almighty  have  mercy  on 
your  soul,"  you  felt  that  there  was  new  power  in  the  law, 
shining  through  the  tears  of  a  man,  and  speaking  in  his 
tremulous  voice.  Just  so  will  it  be  with  our  final  Judge. 
The  sympathies  of  humanity  shall  be  conspicuous  even 
in  his  severest  maledictions.  The  joy  of  a  man  swells  in 
his  bosom  at  each  act  of  faith  and  penitence  he  reads  in 


CHRIST  THE  JUDGE  OF  THE  WORLD.       253 

the  record  of  his  chosen,  and  his  voice  sings  for  gladness 
at  each  new  welcome  to  the  right  hand  of  his  Father. 
And  those  who  go  away  forever  from  his  presence,  shall 
remember  the  fraternal  tones  with  which  he  pronounced 
their  doom  ;  and  amid  the  dark  lonely  caverns  of  their 
exile,  no  sound  is  sadder  than  that  which  follows  the  soul 
from  the  judgment  scene — "  He  that  did  eat  bread  with 
me  has  lifted  up  his  heel  agaii*st  me." 

There  is  yet  another  thought  connected  with  this  part 
of  our  subject.  Our  Saviour  has  in  one  place  made 
known  to  us  the  principle  on  which  the  award  of  justice 
is  to  be  made.  Most  intimately  is  it  connected  with  his 
own  humanity.  It  shows  that  he  is  enabled  in  his  demand 
for  service,  to  appeal  to  the  tastes  and  sympathies  of  men  ; 
and,  as  he  was  himself  a  man,  what  he  chiefly  requires 
seems  to  be,  that  we  should  cherish  and  exhibit  a  love  for 
those  whom  he  died  to  save,  as  bearing  his  own  image, 
and  being  his  own  substitutes  and  representatives.  My 
brethren,  each  cup  of  cold  water  you  furnish  to  a  disciple 
in  the  name  of  Christ,  he  looks  upon,  as  an  act  of  kind- 
ness to  himself,  and  feels  that  from  you  he  should  have 
received  only  tenderness  and  love,  when  he  was  on  the 
same  lonely  pilgrimage.  And  when,  abashed  by  the  elo- 
quence with  which  he  shall  recount  your  services  to  him- 
self, you  are  ready  to  exclaim,  "  Lord,  when  saw  we  thee 
an  hungered  and  fed  thee,  or  thirsty  and  gave  thee  drink," 
the  answer  of  the  Judge  shall  be,  "  Inasmuch  as  ye  have 
done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye 
have  done  it  unto  me." 

III.  In  the  work  of  redemption,  Christ  has  given  the 
highest  possible  proof  of  his  regard  for  the  law. 

There  is  a  most  intimate  relation  between  the  cross  of 

Christ  and  the  law  of  God.     If  Christ  came  merely  as  an 

instructor   to  reform  and   renovate  the  human  character, 

why  was  it  necessary  for  him  to  die  ?     If  his  death  was 

22 


254  CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD. 

only  an  example  of  martyrdom  for  the  truth,  why  did  he 
not  give  a  model  of  cheerful  and  joyous  suffering  ?  No, 
brethren,  there  was  an  object  higher  than  all  this  which 
brought  the  Son  of  God  to  earth,  and  made  him  willing 
to  tread  the  portals  of  the  tomb.  It  was  that  man  might 
be  reconciled  to  God,  that  the  barrier  which  sin  had 
reared  between  the  creature  and  the  Creator,  might  be- 
come as  if  it  had  not  been.  The  bosom  that  yearned  for 
the  salvation  of  the  guilty,  was  yet  unwilling  that  guilt 
should  escape  with  no  mark  of  the  vengeance  of  God. 
Justice  appeared  to  contend  with  love  in  that  mighty  soul. 
On  the  one  hand,  he  saw  that  the  repentance  and  sancti- 
fication  which  his  own  gospel  might  secure,  could  not 
wash  away  the  stain  of  past  offences,  nor  would  he  insult 
the  law  by  inflicting  a  partial  and  finite  punishment  for 
an  offence  that  in  some  of  its  relations  was  infinite.  On 
the  other  hand,  his  heart  longed  to  gather  the  children  of 
men  ransomed  and  forgiven  about  the  throne  of  a  smiling 
Father.  There  was  but  one  way  in  which  love  could 
gratify  its  promptings,  and  yet  justice  feel  that  no  insult 
had  been  offered  to  its  majesty.  On  me,  he  said,  on  me, 
let  the  full  penalty  be  executed.  Let  me  be  held  up  as  a 
spectacle  for  the  universe  of  the  displeasure  of  God 
against  sin.  Let  the  intensity  of  suffering,  with  which 
my  innocent,  sensitive  nature  is  lacerated,  be  enough  to 
atone  for  the  sins  of  a  world,  and  be  substituted  for  their 
deserved  punishment.  Law  shall  sheath  its  glittering 
sword,  and  stand  by  smiling  and  contented,  while  a  voice 
from  the  infinite  throne  proclaims,  Whosoever  cometh  to 
me,  though  mountains  of  guilt  weigh  upon  his  soul,  will 
he  but  look  to  the  cross  of  Christ,  he  shall  in  no  wise  be 
cast  out. 

I  know  there  are  many  who  pretend  that  this  view 
of  a  vicarious  atonement  has  in  it  something  shocking  to 
the  sensibilities.     An  effeminate  theology  is  pressing  its 


CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OP    THE    WORLD.  255 

claims  upon  our  faith,  which  leaves  no  room  for  the  in- 
flexible justice  of  God.  The  cross  of  Christ  indeed  is 
not  a  favorite,  as  it  was  not  a  product  of  human  wisdom. 
To  the  theologians  of  the  synagogue  it  was  a  stumbling- 
block.  To  the  philosophers  of  the  academy  it  was  fool- 
ishness ;  and  in  our  own  day,  peradventure,  to  some  who 
are  saved,  it  looks  more  like  the  figment  of  a  savage  and 
cruel  faith,  than  the  wisdom  and  power  of  God  unto  sal- 
vation. To  such  as  doubt  the  satisfaction  of  divine  jus- 
tice, and  the  connection  between  the  law  and  the  cross, 
we  need  but  unfold  the  plain  story  of  the  gospel,  and  ask 
them  to  explain  it  on  any  other  principle  if  they  can. 
We  would  lead  them  to  Gethsemane,  and  point  them  to^ 
the  mysterious  agony  which  there  brooded  on  the  spirit  of 
Jesus.  What  was  there  in  that  fearful  cup,  from  which 
one  who  had  braved  every  danger,  and  given  himself  vol- 
untarily to  his  great  work,  should  be  ready  almost  to 
shrink.  What  was  there  in  the  anticipation  of  mere 
physical  suffering,  to  agitate  his  frame  so  deeply,  that  in 
the  damp  air  of  that  chilly  evening  the  perspiration  should 
fall  in  clots  to  the  ground.  And  amid  the  tortures  of  the 
cross,  irritating  indeed  to  the  nerves  and  fibres  of  a  man 
— but  what  would  they  have  been  to  an  unclouded  spirit, 
with  the  sweet  memories  of  an  innocent  and  benevolent 
life,  thronging  in  smiles  over  its  departure,  and  holding 
up  the  speedy  fruition  of  its  brightest  hopes  forever. 
Women  have  been  known  to  suffer  greater  physical  ago- 
nies for  the  truth,  and  with  exultation  and  joy  have  gazed 
amid  their  suffering  upon  the  benignant  face  of  Jehovah. 
But  from  him,  the  Prince  of  peace  and  comfort  to  all  his 
followers,  a  voice  was  heard  speaking  not  of  the  rapture 
of  his  expiring  spirit,  but  of  its  forlornness  and  gloom. 
No  1  my  brethren,  while  we  bow  weeping  before  the  cross 
of  Christ  as  a  development  of  tiielove  that  '*  many  waters 
could  not  quench,"  while  we  behold  in  the  pangs  of  the 


256  CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD. 

sufferer,  the  yearnings  of  compassion  for  a  guilty  race, 
let  us  behold  in  it  also,  an  awful,  niysterious  development 
of  another,  sterner  attribute.  Let  us  bow  adoring  before 
eternal  right  as  it  establishes  its  throne  on  Calvary.  Amid 
those  affecting  scenes,  let  us  discern  the  arm  of  the  law, 
in  the  garden  holding  up  its  iron  scroll,  on  the  cross  driv- 
ing the  nails  and  agitating  the  spirit,  asserting  its  claims 
in  the  quaking  earth  and  the  opening  graves  more  loudly 
than  amid  the  thunder ings  of  Sinai,  and  in  those  awful 
words,  "  it  is  finished,"  proclaiming  that  its  demand  of 
obedience  and  penalty  is  satisfied  in  the  innocent  suffering 
of  the  second  Adam  of  our  race.  "  Ought  not  Christ  to 
^ave  suffered  these  things,  and  to  enter  into  his  glory  ?  '* 
And  what  dignity  will  belong  to  him  when  he  comes  to 
administer  the  law,  which  he  has  thus  triumphantly  vin- 
dicated from  reproach  and  injustice.  Surely  it  is  fit  that 
he  who  hung  on  the  cross  as  a  representative  of  the  law, 
should  be  now  intrusted  with  its  authority  in  the  great 
day  of  final  adjudication. 

In  view  of  this  subject,  I  remark, 

First,  The  mediatorial  office  must  relinquish  its  proffers 
to  the  impenitent,  when  the  judicial  office  is  assumed. 

All  legal  analogies  force  us  to  this  idea.  The  earthly 
judge  never  disgraces  his  ermine,  by  assuming  upon  the 
bench  the  part  of  an  advocate.  They  who  would  retain 
his  counsel  exclusively  for  their  own  defence,  must  avail 
themselves  of  it  before  he  assumes  the  judicial  function, 
or  his  learning  and  sagacity  must  be  shared  also  by  their 
adversaries.  "  To  the  law  and  the  testimony,"  is  the 
motto  of  the  judge,  and  in  his  high  seat  he  can  listen  to 
no  personal  appeal ;  he  knows  not  his  brother  from  his 
enemy,  he  forgets  himself.  So  speaks  the  uniform  tenor 
of  Scripture  upon  this  subject.  "  When  the  Son  of  God 
appears  in  his  glory  and  the  holy  angels  with  him,"  he  is 
described  as  no  longer  pleading  with  the  impenitent,  but 


CHRIST  THE  JUDGE  OF  THE  WORLD.       257 

as  pronouncing  against  them  his  final  sentence.  At  the 
hour  of  judgment,  the  office  of  mercy  and  of  grace  will 
have  consummated  its  purposes  for  the  faithful,  but  for 
the  finally  obdurate  its  efficiency  must  cease,  and  after  that 
period  there  is  no  cross  to  which  the  agonized  sinner  cart 
cling  as  the  anchor  of  his  hope.  Faith  in  Christ,  if  it 
be  not  exercised  before,  can  then  be  of  no  avail.  Sad 
truth  is  it  for  thee,  lingering  one,  that  the  face  of  Jesus 
will  not  always  be  lighted  up  with  hope  for  the  sinful, 
neither  will  his  voice  forever  whisper  its  invitations  of 
mercy,  and  its  promises  of  pardon.  The  day  will  come 
when  his  countenance  shall  be  as  lightning,  and  "  his 
words  like  seven  thunders  uttering  their  voices."  Oh  ! 
secure  the  counsel  of  the  affectionate  Advocate  while 
thou  art  in  the  way  with  him,  lest  thou  be  called  to  meet 
him  as  thy  frowning  Judge. 

Secondly,  The  person  of  the  Judge  will  remind  the 
righteous  of  their  dependence  on  grace  rather  than  merit 
for  salvation. 

Where  is  there  one  among  the  blessed  who  could 
submit  his  character  and  history  to  the  searching  test  of 
the  All-seeing  ?  Where  is  there  one  who  would  dare  to 
meet  the  stern  demand  of  the  law  on  that  dreadful  day, 
and  stand  forth  on  his  own  deserts  to  claim  the  reward  ? 
Can  he  point  to  a  summit  of  perfection,  to  which  after 
toils  and  struggles  he  at  length  attained,  with  a  spirit 
exhausted  and  worn  out  in  the  conflict  7  Or  if  that  were 
itself  a  possible  ground  of  merit,  can  he  unfold  the  scroll 
of  his  history,  and  find  from  its  earliest  dawn  no  stain 
defiling  it  ?  Ah !  how  many  deeds  committed  in  the 
darkness  and  solitude  of  midnight  would  blaze  out  there 
to  the  eye  of  the  impartial  Judge  !  How  many  thoughts 
cherished  in  the  secrecy  of  the  bosom,  while  the  eye  sent 
forth  pious  glances,  and  the  voice  spoke  of  heaven ! 
But  now  on  the  disclosed  tablet  of  the  heart,  they  are  as 
22* 


258  CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD. 

Ijegible  to  the  Judge,  as  if  the  point  of  a  diamond  had 
marked  them.  No  !  brethren,  legally  and  rightfully,  we 
cannot  claim  exemption  from  wo,  much  less  the  blessed- 
ness of  an  unfading  crown.  When  we  meet  the  eye  of 
the  Judge,  there  is  little  in  its  penetrating  gaze  that  can 
speak  comfort  to  us.  When  we  look  to  the  immutable 
law,  which  he  stands  pledged  to  support,  we  can  but  cry, 
guilty,  guilty,  with  our  hands  upon  our  mouths.  Only  in 
the  divine  mercy  do  we  find  the  ark  of  our  refuge.  It  is 
the  sympathy  of  the  brother,  "  bone  of  our  bone,  and 
flesh  of  our  flesh,"  to  which  we  make  our  appeal.  More 
than  all,  it  is  the  victory  over  the  law,  it  is  the  great  vica- 
rious sacrifice  for  sin  as  we  see  it  pictured  forth  in  the 
scarred  visage  of  our  Judge,  that  inspires  our  trembling 
spirits  with  hope.  "  Even  the  most  innocent  person," 
says  Jeremy  Taylor,  *'  hath  great  need  of  mercy,  and  he 
that  hath  the  greatest  cause  of  confidence,  although  he 
runs  to  no  rocks  to  hide  him,  yet  he  runs  to  the  protec- 
tion of  the  cross,  and  hides  himself  under  the  shadow  of 
the  divine  mercies."  And  we,  my  brethren,  when  we 
enter  into  that  joy  to  which  our  Judge  shall  welcome  us, 
shall  enter  only  among  the  ransomed  and  blood-bought ; 
and  our  song  shall  be, — "  Not  unto  us,  not  unto  us,  oh 
Thou  who  art  our  Saviour  and  our  Judge,  but  unto  thy 
name  be  all  the  glory." 

Thirdly,  Most  terrible  must  it  be  to  be  condemned  by 
such  a  Judge. 

**  The  whole  world,"  says  one  of  the  Fathers,  "  shall 
groan  when  the  Judge  comes  to  give  his  sentence,  tribe 
and  tribe  sliall  knock  their  sides  together,  and  through 
the  naked  breasts  of  the  most  mighty  kings  you  shall  see 
their  hearts  beat  with  fearful  tremblings."  And,  my 
friends,  the  guilty,  who  are  cast  away  in  indignation,  will 
find  in  each  attribute  of  the  Judge  something  to  aggra- 
vate their  doom.     It  is  the  unerring  decision  of  the  All- 


CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD.  259 

wise,  who  cannot  be  deceived  as  to  the  character,  and 
who  knoweth  the  desert  of  each  criminal  at  his  bar.  It 
is  the  sentence  of  him  who  holds  the  scales  of  justice 
with  an  impartial  hand,  and  administers  a  law  that  is 
holy  and  just  and  good.  It  is  the  stern  decree  of  one 
who  has  but  to  speak  the  word,  and  the  smoke  of  their 
torment  ascendeth  up  forever  and  ever.  But  more 
subduing  than  all,  it  is  the  wrath  of  Divine  Love  under 
which  they  sink,  and  through  the  frowns  of  present 
displeasure,  they  discern  the  compassion  that  is  "  not 
willing  that  any  should  perish."  Verily  the  divine  per- 
fection as  it  shines  forth  in  the  person  of  the  Judge  is 
such  that  every  hope  of  escape  is  shut  up,  and  every 
rebellious  thought  silenced  forever. 

Still  more  will  the  humanity  of  Jesus  aggravate  the 
misery  of  the  condemned.  He  stands  forth  in  the  exam- 
ple of  his  perfect  obedience,  to  show  them  that  they 
might  have  obeyed.  He  rises  up  as  the  representative  of 
their  repeated  violations  of  the  law  of  love, — **  Inasmuch 
as  ye  did  it  not  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my 
brethren,  ye  did  it  not  unto  me."  It  is  the  condemnation 
of  a  sympathizing  brother.  Sad  as  it  might  be  to  sink 
under  the  wrath  of  an  infinite  monarch,  it  will  be 
gloomier  still,  when  the  sinner  must  say.  It  was  thou,  a 
man,  mine  equal,  my  familiar  friend,  but  I  did  force  thee 
to  become  my  reproving  Judge. 

But  it  will  be  the  redemption  of  Jesus,  as  it  speaks 
forth  from  the  wounded  body,  and  the  pierced  hand  that 
points  to  the  sinner's  doom,  it  will  be  the  redemption  of 
Jesus  which  will  make  that  cup  of  wo  most  bitter.  If 
there  is  one  expression  in  the  Bible  where  all  that  is 
awful  is  concentrated,  it  is  in  those  words, — "  the  wrath 
of  the  Lamb."  If  there  is  one  prediction  which  might 
drive  the  expectant  sinner  to  a  pillow  of  thorns,  and  a 
couch  of  agony,  it  is — *'  They   shall  look  on  him  whom 


260       CHRIST  THE  JUDGE  OF  THE  WORLD. 

they  have  pierced."  As  a  God,  they  cannot  escape  his 
searching  gaze,  or  shake  his  firm  justice,  or  overthrow 
his  invincible  power,  or  contradict  his  everlasting  love. 
As  a  man,  they  shall  see  that  he  condemns  them  with  all 
the  stirrings  of  a  brother's  heart.  As  a  Saviour,  •*  they 
shall  look  on  him  whom  they  have  pierced,"  and  it  will 
be  the  bitterness  of  that  wrath  under  which  they  sink, 
that  it  is  the  wrath  of  a  bleeding  Lamb. 

An  old  divine  in  describing  the  scene  has  gathered  a 
singularly  imposing  group  around  the  bar  of  judgment. 
''  Not  only  will  the  Redeemer  be  there  to  confound  the 
sinner — not  only  will  conscience  call  up  the  slighted 
love,  and  cry  out  against  the  base  ingratitude — not  only 
will  the  guilty  themselves  hang  their  heads  and  smite 
upon  their  breasts,  and  cast  fearful  glances  at  the  face  of 
the  Lamb,  but  the  fallen  spirits  will  be  there  joining  to 
judge  and  condemn  those  whom  they  claim  for  their 
future  victims.  And  the  burden  of  their  reproof  shall  be, 
that  from  him  who  died  to  save,  the  reprobate  can  claim 
no  mercy  for  themselves.  Cannot  the  Accuser,"  he 
continues,  "  truly  say  to  the  Judge  concerning  such  per- 
sons, They  were  thine  by  creation,  but  mine  by  their  own 
choice  :  thou  didst  redeem  them  indeed,  but  they  sold 
themselves  to  me  for  a  trifle,  or  for  an  unsatisfying 
interest ;  thou  diedst  for  them,  but  they  obeyed  my  com- 
mandments :  I  gave  them  nothing.  I  promised  them 
nothing,  but  the  pleasures  of  a  night,  or  the  joys  of 
madness,  or  the  delights  of  a  disease :  I  never  hanged 
upon  the  cross  three  long  hours  for  them,  nor  endured 
the  labors  of  a  poor  life  thirty-three  years  together  for 
their  interest :  only  when  they  were  thine  by  the  merit 
of  thy  death,  they  quickly  became  mine  by  the  demerit  of 
their  ingratitude ;  and  when  thou  hadst  clothed  their 
soul  with  thy  robe,  and  adorned  them  by  thy  graces,  we 
stripped  them   naked  as  their  shame,  and  only  put  on  a 


CHRIST    THE    JUDGE    OF    THE    WORLD.  261 

robe  of  darkness,  and  they  thought  themselves  secure 
and  went  dancing  to  their  grave,  like  a  drunkard  to  a 
fight,  or  a  fly  unto  a  candle  :  and  therefore  they  that  did 
partake  with  us  in  our  faults,  must  divide  with  us  in  our 
portion  and  fearful  interest." 


NOTE. 

This  discourse  was  preached  first  at  Boston,  Salem-street  cliurch ; 
afterwards  at  South  Berwick,  May  17,  1840  ;  at  Dover,  N.  H. ; 
Boston,  Park-street  church ;  Durham,  IS".  H. ;  Andover,  Mass. 
Theological  Chapel ;  Danvers,  Mass.  ;  Dedham,  Mass.  ;  Salem, 
Mass.  Crombie-street  church ;  Charlestown,  Mass, ;  Buffalo,  N,  Y. ; 
Newark,  N.  J. ;  Rochester,  N.  H, 


SERMON  VI. 


JESUS  OUR  MASTER,  TEACHER,  EXAMPLE  AND 
REFUGE. 


TAKE  MY  YOKE  UPON  YOU,  AND  LEARN  OF  ME  :  FOR  I  AM  MEEK  AND 
LOWLY  IN  HEART  :  AND  YE  SHALL  FIND  REST  UNTO  YOUR  SOULS. — 

Matt.  11  :  29. 

These  words  occur  in  one  of  those  bursts  of  tender- 
ness and  compassion  which  abound  in  the  instructions  of 
our  Saviour.  He  had  just  been  describing  his  own 
mysterious  connection  with  the  Father,  when  suddenly 
the  wants  of  the  weary  and  wretched  seem  to  rush  upon 
his  view,  and  he  utters  that  memorable  invitation  to  all 
that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden  :  Come  unto  me  and  I 
will  give  you  rest.  From  the  desolations  of  human 
nature,  the  desolations  that  sin  had  caused,  his  eye 
turned  back  upon  himself,  as  the  destined  and  ordained 
Redeemer  from  that  spiritual  bondage  ; — as  the  fountain 
to  whom  the  sin-worn  and  world-weary  should  repair,  and 
find  refreshment  and  joy  to  their  souls.  And  his  direc- 
tion is  in  the  words  of  our  text,  "  Take  my  yoke  upon 
you,  and  learn  of  me,  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in  heart, 
and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls." 

The  passage  invites  us,  my  brethren,  to  look  upon 
Christ  in  four  several  aspects  : 


RELATIONS    OF    CHRIST    TO    HIS    PEOPLE.  263 

I.  As  a  master,  in  the  services  he  enjoins :  "  Take  my 
yoke  upon  you." 

II.  As  a  teacher :  "  Learn  of  me." 

III.  As  an  example :  "  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in  heart." 

IV.  As  a  refuge  from  sorrow  and  sin :  '*  Ye  shall  find 
rest  unto  your  souls," 

Let  us  consider  Christ  in  these  several  characters,  and 
see  whether  he  is  not  properly  set  up  as  the  standard 
around  whom  all  should  gather  ;  as  he  who  is  fitted  to 
secure  the  highest  elevation  and  happiness  of  the  human 
soul. 

I.  Let  us  consider  Christ  as  our  master,  in  the  services 
he  enjoins  upon  his  children  ;  for  he  sajs,  **  Take  my 
yoke  upon  you." 

Now  we  are  so  constituted,  my  brethren,  that  what  we 
chiefly  require  for  the  full  development  of  our  powers,  is 
constant  and  unremitted  exertion.  The  soul  needs  active 
exercise  for  its  health.  There  is  no  more  melancholy 
spectacle  than  a  spiritual  being  wasting  his  days  in  idle- 
ness, sleeping  while  other  men  wake,  or  retiring  oyster- 
like to  his  cell  to  see  the  current  of  action  pass  on,  and 
be  himself  motionless,  stupid.  We  invariably  predict  for 
such  a  one  disease,  or  premature  decay ;  for  we  know 
that  there  is  a  law  of  our  system,  broad  as  are  its  various 
compartments,  and  applying  alike  to  physical  and  spirit- 
ual and  mental  culture.  He  that  will  not  work,  neither 
shall  he  eat.  And  only  the  man  who  lives  a  life  of  vigor, 
who  commissions  his  faculties  and  powers  to  works  of 
toil — only  he  can  reap  in  the  end  the  pleasant  fruits  of  a 
laboriously  exercised  and  symmetrically  cultivated  nature. 

Still  more  important  is  it  that  we  should  be  disciplined 
in  the  course  of  holy  action.  We  find  ourselves  created 
under  a  law,  to  do  what  is  wrong.  It  is  not  a  law  which 
forces  us,  for  we  are  free  to  do  what  is  right,  if  we  would. 
But  it  is  figuratively  styled  a  law,  because  somehow  or 


264  RELATIONS    OF    CHRIST 

Other  the  results  are  invariably  the  same.  We  always  do 
wrong,  until  we  come  under  a  new  and  spiritual  law,  the 
law  of  grace,  and  even  then  we  are  harassed  by  perpetual 
struggles,  and  have  to  undergo  the  fearful  conflict  that 
Paul  did,  when  he  saw  the  law  in  his  members  warring 
against  the  law  in  his  mind.  And  sometimes  we  cry  out 
with  him  :  "  Wretched  men  that  we  are  !  "  Now  what 
we  most  need,  is  something  that  shall  inspire  us  with  fixed 
purposes  of  holy  action  ;  action  so  high  and  ennobling 
that  it  cannot  fail  to  secure  its  own  perpetuity  ;  action 
which  shall  preoccupy  the  powers  which  might  be 
devoted  to  sin — that  when  temptation  comes,  though  it 
be  in  her  most  fascinating  garb,  and  her  most  alluring 
smile,  we  can  look  down  on  her  from  our  lofty  engage- 
ments, and  turn  our  backs  in  scorn. 

There  is  a  still  higher  good  secured,  if  this  labor  be 
in  the  path  of  difficulty  and  self-denial.  It  is  true  every 
where,  that  nothing  great  can  be  attained  without  toil 
and  hazard.  And  it  is  peculiarly  true  of  greatness  of 
soul,  that  it  is  acquired  only  by  those  who  press  their  way 
to  it  through  suffering.  The  man  whom  the  pilgrim  saw 
on  his  way  to  the  palace,  had  to  enter  cutting  and  hack- 
ing his  path  through  grim  warriors,  that  stood  there  to 
bar  up  the  gateway ;  but  he  heard  in  his  struggle  a 
pleasant  voice  from  those  within,  even  those  that  walked 
on  the  top  of  the  palace.  And  every  man  who  wishes  to 
acquire  true  nobleness  and  loftiness  of  spirit,  must  reach 
it  through  the  pathway  of  suffering,  in  the  midst  of 
fightings  without,  and  fears  within  ;  but  he  shall  be 
cheered  by  sweet  voices  from  his  own  soul,  that  shall 
seem  sometimes  like  the  music  of  heaven. 

Now  Christ  in  his  qualities  as  a  master,  in  the  services 
he  enjoins,  meets  just  these  demands  of  the  soul.  He 
asks  for  labor.  There  is  not  a  faculty  of  our  nature  to 
which  he   does  not  make  his  appeal,  and  which  he  does 


TO    HIS    PEOPLE.  265 

not  call  into  active  exercise.  There  is  not  a  power  we 
possess,  which  he  does  not  command  us  to  devote  to  his 
service,  and  which  may  not  be  useful  in  his  cause.  Now 
where  could  be  found  a  purer  atmosphere  of  action,  or 
healthier  exercise  for  the  soul,  or  a  more  beautiful  devel- 
opment of  our  whole  system,  than  if  we  should  submit 
ourselves  to  the  control  and  direction  of  such  a  master  ? 

He  calls  us  too  into  a  course  of  holy  action.  He 
points  out  to  us  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  good  of  our 
fellow  men  as  the  chief  objects  of  exertion.  He  enjoins 
upon  us  a  pure  and  spiritual  worship.  He  leads  us  in 
the  path  of  benevolence.  He  makes  life  one  great  field 
of  labor,  where  we  may  be  incessantly  occupied  for  God 
and  for  souls.  And  he  enforces  these  labors  by  the 
highest  motives  which  ever  speak  to  the  human  bosom, 
attachment  to  his  own  person,  gratitude  for  his  death,  the 
hope  of  sharing  his  inheritance.  And,  my  brethren,  if 
we  could  but  fix  our  eye  on  this  master,  standing  by  us 
continually,  encouraging  us  in  our  work  by  all  the  power 
of  his  own  memory  and  the  hope  of  our  eternal  reward, 
should  we  ever  wish  to  lay  down  our  armor.  Could  we 
think  for  a  moment  of  preferring  the  service  of  the  world 
to  the  service  of  Jesus. 

Still  more  he  calls  us  into  the  pathway  of  self-denial. 
It  is  a  yoke  which  we  are  commanded  to  take  upon  us. 
First  of  all  we  must  subdue  this  world-craving  nature  of 
ours.  We  must  bring  every  idolatry  to  which  we  are 
clinging,  into  subjection  to  the  law  of  this  great  master. 
The  passions  that  would  draw  us  off  into  a  career  of 
self-gratification,  we  must  gather  under  this  yoke.  Humil- 
iating, mortifying  position  as  it  is,  we  must  put  ourselves, 
our  whole  souls  there,  and  be  governed  by  our  divine 
guide.  It  is  elsewhere  called  a  cross.  We  must  bear 
about  with  us  that  emblem  of  suffering  in  memory  of  our 
atoning  high-priest,  and  in  memory  of  the  self-crucifying 
23 


^66  RELATIONS    OF    CHRIST 

spirit  he  would  have  us  cherish.  We  must  count  all 
things  but  loss,  that  we  may  win  his  approving  smile. 
We  must  be  willing  to  face  the  frowns  of  the  world,  and 
to  preach  the  gospel  to  those  who  would  scorn  or  abuse 
us.  And,  my  brethren,  what  loftiness  would  be  imparted 
to  our  character,  if  we  were  ready  to  look  suffering  and 
danger  in  the  face,  in  the  service  of  our  Master — called 
not  now  indeed  to  follow  him  to  prison  and  to  death,  but 
called  to  a  daily  crucifixion  of  our  idols — to  the  wounds 
of  a  sensitive  spirit,  and  to  hear  Christ's  instructive  voice 
in  the  afflictions  and  sorrows  and  vexations  of  life.  Oh  ! 
what  elevation  might  we  have,  if  we  gazed  on  all  as  the 
cross  we  were  to  bear,  and  bear  cheerfully  for  the  sake 
of  Jesus,  and  cherished  in  our  hearts  the  sentiment  of 
that  ancient  saint,  **  When  we  rise,  the  cross — when  we 
lie  down,  the  cross — when  we  go  out  and  when  we  come 
in,  the  cross — at  all  times  and  in  all  places,  the  cross, 
shining  more  glorious  than  the  sun." 

II.  Let  us  now  proceed  to  consider  Christ  as  our 
teacher,  for  he  says,  *'  Learn  of  me." 

The  soul  of  man  needs  a  divinely  inspired  instructor. 
Rich  as  are  the  lessons  hung  up  in  its  own  secret  cham- 
bers, they  are  read  too  often  with  a  dim  eye,  or  a  bewil- 
dered gaze,  and  man  shows  his  ignorance  by  the  false 
interpretation  of  his  own  nature.  And  then  when  in 
proud  self-confidence  and  trusting  only  to  his  own  inward 
light,  he  walks  abroad  in  the  pathway  of  spiritual  discov- 
ery, how  sad  and  how  fatal  have  been  his  wanderings  ; 
and  it  is  only  when  the  fatigued  and  famished  spirit  will 
sit  down  at  the  feet  of  Jesus,  that  it  will  find  refreshment 
and  food.  Yea,  man  needs  a  teacher  who  will  renovate 
the  heart,  as  well  as  furnish  the  intellect,  and  send  them 
both  together  in  holy  fellowship  to  the  work  of  self- 
cultivation.     And   such  a  teacher  is  Christ.     He  touches 


TO    HIS    PEOPLE.  26*7 

the  moral  affections  of  his  pupils,  and  makes  that  love  the 
basis  of  his  superstructure  of  doctrine. 

The  world  has  seen  many  great  men,  my  brethren, 
under  whose  instructions  you  and  I  would  have  loved  to 
sit.  But  take  the  philosophic  sages  of  heathen  antiquity 
who  could  blend  nothing  Christ-like  with  their  lessons, 
because  the  oracles  of  the  New  Testament  had  not  yet 
been  uttered,  and  to  them  the  finger  of  prophecy  had  not 
pointed  out  the  future  guide,  and  how  lifeless  appear  their 
lessons  compared  with  his  who  brought  life  and  immor- 
tality to  light.  When  we  see  how  their  minds  struggled 
for  the  truth,  and  contrast  the  feebleness  of  their  attain- 
ments with  the  mightiness  of  their  endeavors,  we  are 
reminded  of 

"  Eyes  that  rolled  in  vain  to  catch  the  piercing  ray 
But  found  no  dawn." 

And  we  most  beautifully  recur  to  our  own  teacher,  when 
we  remember  that  the  greatest  sentiment  which  Socrates 
ever  uttered,  was  that  in  which,  forced  by  a  sense  of 
ignorance  to  the  unconscious  prophecy,  he  speaks  of 
looking  forward  to  a  divine  teacher  who  shall  one  day 
appear  to  reveal  the  mysteries  of  truth,  and  make  its  dark 
places  plain. 

Go  to  the  inspired  teachers,  and  you  find  that  they  live 
and  breathe  in  the  fullness  of  their  blessed  Master.  The 
poetry  of  the  Old  Testament  never  glows  so  brightly,  as 
when  it  speaks  of  the  Shiloh  that  is  yet  to  come, — of  the 
grace  that  is  poured  into  his  lips, — of  the  spirit  of 
wisdom  which  shall  encircle  him.  And  the  lessons  of 
apostolic  wisdom  never  appear  so  rich,  as  when  they 
name  the  name  of  Jesus,  and  breathe  his  spirit,  and  seem 
but  new  embodiments  of  the  accents  which  fell  from  his 
lips. 

Was  there  ever  a  system  of  morality,  more  compre- 


268  RELATIONS    OF    CHRIST 

hensive  and  yet  more  spiritual,  than  the  sermon  on  the 
Mount?  Did  the  great  law  of  love  ever  speak  with  a 
clearer  power  to  the  soul  of  man  ?  And  throughout  that 
ministry,  how  varied  the  form  and  yet  how  unaltered  the 
spirit  of  the  truths  inculcated.  More  than  any  man  he 
blended  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  with  the  harmlessness 
of  the  dove  ;  uttering  many  a  brief  maxim,  which  con- 
tains volumes  of  meaning,  and  attracts  the  long  study  of 
the  greatest  of  minds,  and  yet  so  simple  that  a  child  can 
understand  it ;  now  withering  an  opposer  with  his  gentle 
sarcasm,  now  overpowering  him  with  his  just  rebuke, 
now  winning  him  by  his  benignant  invitation  ;  now 
clearly  unfolding  a  hard  doctrine,  now  inculcating  a  soul- 
stirring  rule  of  action,  now  breathing  a  whisper  of 
pardon  and  peace  ;  yet  ever  the  same — full  of  meaning, 
and  purity  and  love.  Jesus,  we  will  choose  thee  for  our 
teacher,  for  in  thy  light  we  shall  see  light.  Wandering 
for  moral  lessons  among  the  teachings  of  earth,  we  do 
but  tire  our  vexed  spirits,  and  blind  our  dim  vision.  We 
come  back  to  thee.  With  new  delight  would  we  bend 
over  thy  pages.  With  child-like  docility  would  we  sit 
down  at  thy  feet.  Oh  !  teach  us,  guide  us,  enrich  us 
with  thine  own  wisdom,  exalt  us  at  last  to  the  new  and 
higher  teachings  of  heaven. 

III.  Let  us  proceed  to  consider  Christ  as  an  example, 
for  he  points  to  his  own  character  as  the  chief  source  of 
instruction  when  he  says,  *'  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in 
heart." 

He  stands  out  in  all  history  as  the  solitary  instance  of 
a  spotless  human  being.  What  the  soul  craves  most  in 
companionship,  is  the  personation  of  moral  and  mental 
perfections.  But  every  thinking  man  knows  that  such  a 
treasure  cannot  be  found.  There  is  not  one  to  whom  I 
speak  who  has  not  noticed  this  particular  in  his  own 
experience.     When  you  have  fixed  upon  some  one  person 


TO    HIS    PEOPLE. 

as  possessing  all  the  most  admirable  qualities  of  charac- 
ter, and  presenting  to  your  view  a  most  harmonious 
picture,  how  invariably  has  a  closer  acquaintance  or  a 
minuter  inspection  revealed  some  foibles  to  your  view, 
not  indeed  to  diminish  your  love,  but  to  make  you  weep 
in  secret  places  over  the  imperfection  of  your  nature. 
You  have  read  of  that  ancient  sculptor  Phidias.  On  a 
certain  occasion  he  was  commanded  to  mould  a  statue  of 
Jupiter,  which  should  excel  in  the  beauty  of  its  propor- 
tions all  his  former  works.  At  the  set  time  he  brought 
forth  an  image,  which  seemed  as  he  was  carrying  it 
through  the  streets,  so  ungainly  in  aspect,  and  so  awkward 
in  posture,  that  the  disappointed  populace  had  well  nigh 
torn  him  to  pieces.  Bat  the  artist  begged  them  to  wait 
till  he  had  placed  it  on  its  lofty  pedestal ;  and  then  in  the 
enchantment  which  distance  lent  to  the  view,  it  stood 
forth  with  such  dignity  and  beauty  and  grace,  that  the 
people  shouted  that  Phidias  was  himself  a  god.  And  I 
have  known  some  men,  who  on  the  same  principle  have 
shrunk  from  an  intimacy  with  their  fellows,  from  a 
morbid  fear  of  discovering  their  deficiencies.  But  I 
would  rather  they  should  make  a  different  use  of  their 
sense  of  human  frailty.  I  would  rather  it  should  lead 
them  to  reflect  how  the  human  character  must  appear  to 
the  eye  of  God,  when  it  shuns  even  the  scrutiny  of  man. 
I  would  rather  it  should  gather  all  men  around  Jesus,  as 
the  great  and  the  only  spectacle  of  perfect  humanity — as 
able  to  satisfy  every  longing  of  the  soul. 

There  is  a  thought  touched  upon  by  some  recent  writers 
on  this  subject,  to  which  I  cannot  help  alluding.  It  pre- 
sents the  fitness  of  Christ  for  a  universal  example,  from 
the  fact  that  his  traits  of  character  are,  so  to  speak,  uni- 
versal rather  than  individual  or  national.  His  virtues  are 
not  virtues  arrayed  in  the  costume  of  his  race  or  his  line. 
He  was  not  a  Jew,  but  a  man.  In  this  respect  he  difTers 
23* 


270  RELATIONS    OF    CHRIST 

from  every  other  great  man,  and  from  every  other  illus- 
trious example  that  ever  lived.  They  are  all  the  peculiar 
property  of  some  peculiar  clime  or  age,  and  they  cannot 
of  course  speak  with  equal  power  to  those  at  a  distance 
from  their  home  or  their  period.  Not  so  is  it  with  Christ. 
He  did  not  assume  the  exclusive  bigotry  of  the  Jew,  the 
formality  of  the  pharisee,  or  the  pedantry  of  the  scribe  ; 
but  he  took  his  stand  above  the  level  of  Judaism  and  its 
various  phases,  on  the  broad,  noble  basis  of  humanity. 
And  now  through  these  simple  features  he  speaks  to  men 
of  every  clime  and  every  age.  Alike  the  king  and  his 
vassal  will  hear  his  fraternal  voice.  His  image  shines  in 
the  abodes  of  refinement  or  the  hovel  of  poverty.  The 
Bramin  of  India,  and  the  Mohammedan  of  Persia,  and 
the  native  savage  of  our  own  wilds,  come  up  from  their 
widely  severed  spheres  of  idolatry,  and  all  unite  in  recog- 
nizing in  this  one  character  the  lineaments  of  a  brother. 
And,  my  brethren,  to  us  who  have  adopted  him  as  our 
spiritual  brother,  shall  not  his  gentle  example — the  meek- 
ness and  lowliness  of  his  heart — shall  they  not  speak  with 
a  power  that  shall  subdue  our  own  lives  to  a  delightful  fel- 
lowship. And  when  called  to  face  affliction  and  trial, 
shall  we  not  be  exalted  and  comforted,  by  thinking  over 
the  paths  of  trial  which  he  trod,  and  imitate  his  spirit  of 
meek  submission  till  we  imagine  ourselves  in  the  very 
footsteps  of  his  sorrow  ?  And  when  called  to  tread  the 
fiery  pathway  of  temptation,  let  us  think  of  the  wilder- 
ness, and  the  garden,  and  the  cross ;  let  us  remember 
that  though  he  wrestled  as  a  man,  he  conquered,  and  that 
we  shall  hear  his  voice  saying  to  us,  Be  of  good  cheer,  I 
have  overcome,  and  I  will  give  you  the  victory ;  and  that 
voice  shall  be  to  us,  as  was  the  ministering  of  angels  to 
the  famished  Jesus.  There  is  a  beautiful  story  of  an 
eastern  king,  who  was  journeying  one  cold  winter's  night 
in  company  with  his  servant.     The  servant  from   fatigue 


TO    HIS    PEOPLE.  271 

and  cold  sunk  down,  and  had  well  nigh  perished  in  the 
snow.  But  when  his  master  missed  him,  he  turned  back 
and  bade  him  rise,  and  be  of  good  cheer,  and  be  careful 
to  walk  directly  behind  him,  and  put  his  feet  exactly  in 
his  own  footsteps  in  the  snow.  And  the  servant  did  so, 
keeping  in  the  path  through  the  snow  which  his  master's 
feet  were  making,  and  he  went  on  rejoicingly,  and  fiiinted 
no  more.  And,  my  brethren,  it  is  so  with  us.  When  we 
wander  away  from  the  path  of  our  Lord's  example,  we 
shall  faint  and  die.  But  let  us  keep  steadily  in  his  foot- 
steps, and  we  shall  be  strong. 

IV.  Let  us  briefly  consider  Christ,  in  the  last  place,  as 
our  refuge  from  sorrow  and  sin  ;  for  he  holds  it  out  as  a 
reward  for  our  service,  and  obedience,  and  imitation, — 
**  Ye  shall  find  rest  to  your  souls." 

And  the  soul  of  man  needs  such  rest.  Oh  there  are 
seasons  when  desolation  like  a  whirlwind  sweeps  over  us, 
and  the  agonizing  question  of  the  stricken  spirit  is, 
*'  whither  shall  I  flee  for  a  refuge?  "  Adversity  tears  from 
us  our  choicest  treasures  ;  and  we  are  left  in  the  world 
with  that  insufferable  sense  of  loneliness,  which  makes  us 
feel  though  we  are  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  that  we  are 
fearfully  alone.  And  how  blessed  is  the  heart  which  can 
look  up  to  Jesus  at  such  an  hour,  with  the  peaceful  and 
happy  exclamation,  *'  Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but  thee, 
and  there  is  none  on  earth  that  I  desire  besides  thee." 

But  it  is  chiefly  as  a  refuge  from  sin,  that  we  are  called 
to  contemplate  our  Saviour,  on  this  interesting  occasion. 
Those  are  indeed  hours  of  bitterness,  when  the  soul  wakes 
up  to  the  consciousness  of  its  own  past  ingratitude  and 
neglect ;  and  the  dark  waves  of  despair  seem  to  roll  over 
it.  And  from  the  pangs  of  remorse,  and  the  angry  eye 
of  God,  and  the  gulf  that  yawns  for  the  convicted  one, 
there  is  but  one  place  of  escape,  and  that  is  the  cross  of 
Christ.     In   the  sacred   wounds,   in   the  streaminor  blood. 


272 


RELATIONS    OF    CHRIST 


in  the  despairing  visage,  we  behold  our  own  refuge.  In 
the  voice  of  agony,  we  hear  the  sentence  of  our  own 
peace. 

In  a  discourse  which  I  once  heard,  and  which  I  can 
now  quote  only  from  memory,  the  preacher  gathered 
around  the  scene  of  the  crucifixion  the  company  of  those 
whom  Jesus  had  benefited  by  his  miracles  of  mercy. 
These  all  throng  about  the  cross,  to  pacify  his  sorrow,  by 
reminding  him  how  rich  in  benefits  had  been  his  life. 
The  widow  of  Nain  brings  thither  her  son  restored  to  the 
freshness  of  life,  from  the  very  gateway  of  burial.  De- 
moniacs whom  he  hnd  relieved  sit  down  among  the  holy 
women,  clothed  and  in  their  right  minds.  The  blind  are 
there,  gazing  with  moistened  eyes  on  him  who  had  brought 
light  into  the  chambers  of  their  darkness.  There  Lazarus 
and  his  sisters  look  up  with  affection  in  every  feature, 
and  speak  with  grateful  voice  of  the  mourning  he  had 
turned  to  joy.  There  Jairus  leads  in  his  blooming 
daughter,  and  the  newly  wedded  pair  of  Cana  come  to 
grace  the  halls  of  his  memory  with  their  festive  oflfering. 
These  all  wait  upon  the  lonely  sufferer  as  he  hangs  sus- 
pended between  heaven  and  earth.  They  would  bring 
peace  to  his  despairing  spirit.  They  would  bring  balm 
to  his  wounded  soul.  "  But  when  he  had  tasted  thereof, 
he  would  not  drink.  And  he  cried,  It  is  finished,  and 
gave  up  the  ghost."  And,  my  brethren,  why  was  it  that 
he  could  find  no  peace  in  those  pleasant  recollections — 
that  he  could  read  no  comfort  in  those  grateful  faces.  It 
was  because  the  burden  of  our  sins  was  upon  him.  And 
he  found  in  that  fearful  hour  no  rest  for  himself,  that  he 
might  say  unto  us  ;  "  in  me,  in  me  ye  shall  find  rest  unto 
your  souls." 

And  now,  beloved,  Christ  has  called  you  to  a  new 
sacramental  feast.  With  new  delight  will  you  not  come, 
and  contemplate   him  as  your  master,  as  your  teacher,  as 


TO    HIS    PEOPLE.  273 

your  example,  as  your  refuge?  Shall  it  not  be,  that  you 
will  come  forgetting  the  things  that  are  behind,  with  their 
depressions  and  discords  and  sins,  and  come  up  to  the 
table  in  holy  fellowship  with  each  other  and  your  common 
Lord?  Will  you  not  come  to  take  upon  you  anew  his 
yoke,  to  learn  new  lessons  of  wisdom  from  his  lips,  to 
have  new  light  shed  upon  the  pathway  in  which  he  trod, 
and  to  press  to  your  heart  with  new  affection  his  blessed 
promises.  Behold  him  in  the  elements  of  his  body  and 
his  blood,  as  your  master,  and  take  up  the  cross,  and  bear 
it  with  a  spirit  of  self-devotion  and  fidelity  through  life. 
Listen  to  him  in  the  bread  and  the  cup,  as  a  teacher — 
reminding  you  of  your  guilt,  and  calling  you  to  gratitude 
and  love.  Behold  him  in  that  affecting  picture  of  disin- 
terested suffering,  as  an  example  of  lofty  benevolence  ; 
and  be  willing,  as  he  laid  down  his  life  for  you,  to  lay 
down  your  lives  also  for  one  another.  But  above  all,  let 
us  gaze  on  him  as  a  refuge — a  rest  for  our  souls ;  rest 
amid  the  wanderings  of  earth  ;  rest  in  the  dark  hour  of 
despair ;  rest  amid  the  agonies  of  death  ;  rest  at  his  own 
right  hand  in  heaven. 


NOTE. 

This  sermon  was  composed  during  the  spring  vacation  of  Mr. 
Homer's  Senior  year  at  the  Theological  Seminary.  It  was  plan- 
ned and  fully  wTitten  out  in  a  single  day.  He  was  called  unex- 
pectedly to  preach  a  Preparatory  Lecture,  and  having  no  appropri- 
ate discourse  he  wrote  the  preceding  as  the  Lecture.  It  was  deliv- 
ered at  South  Berwick,  May,  1840  ;  afterwards  at  South  Boston, 
New  Market,  N.  H.,  and  Dover,  N.  H. 


SERMON  VII. 


THE  RESPONSIBILITY  OF  A  MAN  FOR  HIS  INFLUENCE 
OVER  OTHERS. 


AND  THE  LORD  SAID  UNTO  CAIN,  WHERE  IS  ABEL,  THY  BROTHER  ?  AND 
HE  SAID,  I  KNOW  NOT  :  AM  I  MY  BROTHER'S  KEEPER  ?  AND  HE 
SAID,  WHAT  HAST  THOU  DONE  ?  THE  VOICE  OF  THY  BROTHER'S 
BLOOD    CRIETH   UNTO   ME   FROM   THE    GROUND. — Gen.  4  :  9,  10. 

I  HAVE  selected  this  familiar  passage,  to  lay  before  you 
some  thoughts  on  the  duties  we  owe  to  each  other.  God 
comes  to  the  murderer,  and  demands  of  him  an  account 
respecting  his  brother.  The  guilty  man  tries  to  throw  off 
the  responsibility.  But  he  cannot  escape  the  all-searching 
eye  of  Jehovah,  or  the  voice  that  cries  from  the  ground 
for  vengeance.  By  a  very  easy  accommodation  we  can 
apply  the  passage  to  that  account  which  God  calls  every 
man  to  render  respecting  the  condition  of  his  fellow-man. 
The  text  naturally  suggests  a  three-fold  division  of  the 
subject. 

I.  God  has  a  right  to  call  men  to  account  for  the 
condition  of  their  fellow-creatures :  "  Where  is  thy 
brother  1  " 

II.  Men  are  disposed  to  deny  this  accountability, 
chiefly  in  reference  to  moral  and  religious  influence  : 
"  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper  ?  " 


Man's  responsibility  for  others.  275 

III.  God  certainly  will  call  men  to  account  for  the 
influence  they  exert  upon  others :  *'  What  hast  thou 
done  ?  the  voice  of  thy  brother's  blood  crieth  unto  me 
from  the  ground." 

I.  God  has  a  rio^ht  to  call  men  to  account  for  the  con- 
dition  of  their  fellow-creatures.  To  each  one  of  us  it  is 
perfectly  proper  that  he  should  come  this  evening  with 
the  solemn  interrogatory,  "  Where  is  thy  brother  ? " 
There  is  not  an  individual  present  who  has  not  the  desti- 
nies of  fellow-beings  in  some  measure  committed  to  his 
trust ;  who  may  not  have  been  operating,  by  something 
that  he  has  done  this  very  day,  upon  others  who  live  a 
thousand  miles  from  this  place,  or  who  may  not  live  till  a 
thousand  years  from  this  time. 

I  think  this  will  be  evident  if  we  consider. 

First,  The  structure  of  man  as  a  social  being.  We 
naturally ^shun  solitude.  The  sympathies  of  our  nature 
all  lead  us  to  fly  to  one  another.  They  prompt  us  not 
only  to  secure  our  own  interests,  but  to  seek  out  some 
other  being  to  love,  and  shelter,  in  our  warm  embrace, 
from  evil.  One  who  secludes  himself  from  his  fellows, 
and  lives  in  the  wilderness,  in  solitary  independence  of 
every  thing  except  the  wild  productions  of  nature,  is 
looked  upon  as  a  moral  anomaly  ;  and  even  he  cannot 
escape  the  searching  question,  •'  Where  is  thy  brother  ?  " 
For  as  he  tries  to  shut  himself  out  from  all  fellowship, 
he  is  accountable  for  that  very  seclusion  ;  and  he  who 
neglects  his  brother  may  be  as  guilty,  as  he  who  does  his 
brother  wrong. 

Society  is  founded  upon  this  principle  of  mutual 
dependence.  And  the  way  we  test  the  progress  of  soci- 
ety, is  by  examining  how  far  its  different  classes  assume 
the  position  of  mutual  aid.  The  poor  depend  upon  the 
rich,  and  the  rich  depend  upon  the  poor.  One  branch  of 
industry  is   supported    by    another.     The    tradesman    is 


276  man's  responsibility  for  others. 

dependent  on  the  youngest  apprentice  whom  he  supplies 
with  food  and  raiment.  If  the  smallest  wheel  in  the 
great  system  were  to  move  irregularly,  the  disorder  would 
be  felt  at  the  centre  of  operations  ;  and  should  the  hand 
say  to  the  foot,  I  have  no  need  of  thee,  the  world  would 
stand  still  and  refuse  to  stir,  until  harmony  could  be 
restored  among  the  discordant  members.  Every  man 
who  feels  conscious  of  having  injured  his  neighbor, 
recognizes  the  justice  of  that  law  which  calls  him  to 
account  for  the  wrong.  And  it  is  the  voice  of  God 
speaking  through  the  ordinance  of  man,  in  the  words  of 
our  text,  **  Where  is  thy  brother  ?  " 

Secondly,  We  shall  be  still  more  fully  convinced  of  the 
justice  of  this  demand  of  God,  if  we  consider  the  nature 
of  human  influence.  The  voice  of  man  stirs  up  depths 
in  the  soul  of  his  fellow-man,  which  nothing  else  can 
reach.  And  the  silent  example  often  speaks  with  an 
eloquence,  which  no  language  could  exhibit.  It  is 
probable  that  we  never  converse  with  a  fellow-being 
without  carrying  away  certain  thoughts  or  impressions 
from  the  interview,  which  afterwards  make  a  part  of  our 
mental  furniture.  In  my  own  observation  I  have  noticed 
this  remarkable  fact.  When  a  sensitive  scholar  has  been 
cherishing  in  secret  some  favorite  opinion,  and  at  length 
meets  a  friend  who  opposes  him,  and  an  earnest  discussion 
ensues ;  unless  the  scholar  can  bring  his  friend  to  an 
agreement  with  him  upon  the  spot,  he  often  goes  away 
with  misgivings  about  the  correctness  of  his  own  theory. 
He  may  have  felt  that  he  conquered  his  friend  in  argu- 
ment, but  is  still  discomposed  by  the  thought  that  an 
intelligent  spirit  cannot  agree  with  him,  and  he  is  at  last 
compelled  to  retrace  his  steps,  and  modify  if  not  abandon 
his  theory.  And  occasionally  it  is  found  that  this  same 
friend  has  been  undergoing  a  similar  process  in  his  own 
mind,  and  chiefly  by  the  power  of  mental   sympathy  has 


man's  responsibility  for  others.  277 

come  to  adopt  the  views  of  the  scholar,  so  that  the  two  dis- 
putants are  almost  prepared  to  exchange  ground,  and  fight 
the  battle  over  again.  There  is  a  story  told  of  two  brothers 
by  the  name  of  Reynolds,  who  lived  in  England,  in  the 
seventeenth  century.  One  was  a  protestant,  and  the  other 
a  catholic.  Both  fond  of  each  other,  and  each  anxious  to 
convert  the  other  to  his  own  belief  They  appointed  a 
day  for  discussion.  They  met  and  canvassed  the  subject 
of  their  respective  religions,  and  the  result  was  that  the 
protestant  became  a  catholic,  and  the  catholic  became  a 
protestant,  and  each  remained  so  till  his  dying  day.  Now 
this  was  no  force  of  argument,  but  simply  the  power  of 
one  human  soul  over  another.  And,  my  friends,  could 
the  pages  of  our  long  inward  history  be  brought  to  us,  as 
clearly  as  we  shall  read  them  by  the  force  of  that  plenary 
memory  with  which  we  are  one  day  to  be  endowed, 
should  we  not  find  that  there  is  built  up  on  our  separate 
individuality  a  superstructure  from  the  thoughts  of  others  ? 
That  first  whisper  of  maternal  tenderness  which  we 
heard  in  infancy,  when  it  ceased  to  vibrate  on  the  ear, 
did  not  cease  to  vibrate  on  the  heart.  The  playmates  of 
our  childhood  may  have  contributed  impulses  which  have 
grown  up  into  all-absorbing  passions.  And  onward,  all 
the  way  through  life,  we  have  been  gathering  up  these 
impressions,  and  there  lives  and  thinks  and  acts  in  us  the 
crowd  of  living,  thinking,  acting  beings  through  which 
we  have  been  hurried. 

There  is  another  thought  connected  with  this  influence 
over  each  other.  It  is  eternal.  It  cannot  cease  with 
life.  It  sometimes  speaks  from  the  grave  with  a  power 
that  it  did  not  possess  before.  The  memory  of  the  dead 
forces  their  influence  upon  us  with  a  charm  that  we 
cannot  resist.  But  that  influence  lives  also,  after  the 
power  that  communicated  its  first  impulses  is  silent,  in 
the  lives  of  those  who  felt  it,  and  who  in  turn  will  trans- 
24 


278  man'8  responsibility  for  others. 

mit  it  to  successive  generations  down  to  the  end  of  time. 
We,  my  friends,  live  among  the  ruins  of  a  once  mighty- 
people,  who  were  buried  upon  the  very  ground  where  we 
now  stand.  Now  and  then  we  dig  up  their  bones.  But 
where  are  their  bodies  ?  And  where  is  the  dust  of  the 
fathers  of  that  race  ?  Decomposed  to  its  original  ele- 
ments, it  has  gone  to  nurture  the  earth  that  sustains  our 
life,  and  it  floats  around  us  in  the  air  we  breathe.  And 
we  ourselves  in  time  shall  return  to  our  mother  earth,  to 
enrich  its  resources,  and  to  bear  our  share  in  maturing 
its  future  sons.  And  have  you  never  thought  that  our 
souls  live  also  on  the  dead.  That  the  thoughts  cherished, 
and  the  words  uttered  years  ago,  by  those  whom  the  hand 
of  God  has  linked  in  with  our  destiny,  are  supplying  our 
minds  and  our  language ;  that  the  influence  you  have 
exerted  to-day  over  your  brother,  will  speak  through  him 
to  his  children  and  his  children's  children.  As  you  have 
read  of  that  eastern  fable  of  the  transmigration  of  souls, 
has  it  not  seemed  to  you  that  there  may  be  such  a  trans- 
migration of  influence.  Do  you  not  feel,  that  the  spirit 
of  a  remote  ancestor  may  this  day,  in  one  sense,  be  look- 
ing out  at  your  eyes,  and  speaking  in  your  voice,  and  you 
yourselves  in  turn,  by  the  ever-living  power  of  your 
influence,  may  stand  one  day  in  the  station  and  whisper 
in  the  ear  of  a  remote  descendant.  And  has  not  God  a 
right  to  demand  of  you,  hedged  in  as  you  are  by  such 
circumstances,  able  to  move  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor 
to  the  left  as  a  solitary  being,  endowed  with  the  privi- 
lege of  improving  this  power  for  the  good  of  your 
fellows,  for  long  ages  in  this  life  and  eternal  ages  in  the 
life  to  come — oh  !  has  he  not  the  right  to  demand  an 
account  of  such  a  stewardship,  of  such  a  talent,  as  he 
does,  when  with  solemn  earnestness  he  puts  the  question, 
•*  Man,  where  is  thy  brother  ?  " 

II.  I  now  pass  to  remark  that  men  are  disposed  to 


man's  responsibility  for  others.  279 

deny  this  accountability,  chiefly  in  reference  to  moral 
and  religious  influence.  With  regard  to  worldly  con- 
cerns, they  are  proud  to  acknowledge  their  power  over 
each  other  ;  they  make  it  their  boast.  And  the  more  low 
the  station,  the  more  insignificant  the  agent,  the  more 
exulting  is  the  thought,  that  he  can  make  even  the  lofty 
and  the  powerful  feel  their  dependence  upon  him.  But 
go  to  such  a  one,  and  ask  him  what  he  has  done  for  the 
souls  of  his  fellow-men  ;  whether  he  has  ever  communi- 
cated one  spiritual  truth  ;  whether  there  has  been  a  reli- 
gious power  speaking  forth  from  his  life ;  whether  in 
short  the  world  is  any  better  for  his  living  in  it ;  and  he 
will  start  from  you  with  surprise,  and  the  language  you 
read  in  his  perturbed  countenance  is,  *'  Am  I  my 
brother's  keeper  ?  " — I,  but  a  private  citizen,  but  an 
humble  member  of  society,  comparatively  poor  in  know- 
ledge and  property  and  talent?  Go  to  the  princes  of 
the  earth,  go  to  those  who  have  been  officially  intrusted 
with  the  concerns  of  their  fellow-men,  go  to  the  ministers 
of  the  gospel,  who  watch  for  souls  as  they  that  must  give 
account,  but  come  not  to  me.  "  Am  I  my  brother's 
keeper  ?  " 

One  of  the  reasons  why  men  are  so  prone  to  deny  this 
religious  accountability  is,  that  they  are  most  conscious 
of  a  deficiency  here.  Cain  knew  that  he  had  been  guilty 
of  the  murder  of  his  brother,  and  he  thought  it  a  very 
sagacious  mode  of  self-vindication  to  deny  all  responsibil- 
ity in  the  matter.  If  conscience  had  but  held  back  the 
arm  that  he  lifted  that  morning  against  his  brother,  and 
forced  him  to  a  kind  embrace  rather  than  a  murderous 
blow,  he  would  not  have  met  the  searching  question  with 
such  an  answer.  With  a  clear  open  front,  he  would  have 
stood  up  in  the  presence  of  Jehovah,  and  pointed  to  the 
mild  one  still  laying  his  flocks  upon  the  altar  of  sacrifice. 
And,   my    brethren,   it   is   the   same  with  us.     We  live 


280  man's  responsibility  for  others. 

forgetful  of  our  high  calling  as  religious  beings.  When 
we  pass  a  fellow-creature  in  the  street,  when  we  gather 
our  children  about  us  in  the  family,  when  we  are 
engaged  in  business  intercourse,  we  seldom  look  upon 
those  whom  the  providence  of  God  has  gathered  around 
us,  as  creatures  destined  to  immortality,  and  as  capable 
of  receiving  an  impression  from  us,  which  may  make  that 
an  immortality  of  joy.  And  when  God  comes  to  us,  with 
this  solemn  inquiry  concerning  our  brother,  we  are  so 
conscious  of  entire  forgetfulness,  or  of  absolute  guilt, 
that  we  try  to  shake  off  all  sense  of  obligation,  and  deny 
the  rightfulness  of  his  appeal.  Not  so  would  it  be,  if  we 
cherished  the  constant  sense  of  our  power,  and  deter- 
mined to  exercise  it  for  God.  If  our  daily  prayer  was, 
that  he  would  enable  us  to  live  for  others  as  well  as 
ourselves  ;  if  we  went  forth  to  our  duties  with  spirits 
sanctified  and  elevated  by  this  prayer,  if  every  word  and 
act  breathed  forth  the  energy  of  this  noble  purpose,  and 
we  made  men  feel  that  we  were  in  love  with  souls  ;  then, 
when  our  Lord  should  come  to  urge  upon  us  the  solemn 
and  searching  inquiry,  with  joy  should  we  go  forth  to 
meet  him  at  his  coming,  and  our  answer  would  be.  Lord, 
here  are  we,  and  those  whom  thou  hast  committed  to  our 
spiritual  guardianship. 

Another  of  the  reasons  for  this  denial  of  accountability 
for  our  religious  influence,  is  that  we  are  disposed  prac- 
tically to  deny  the  omniscience  of  God.  So  was  it  with 
Cain.  Foolish  man  !  In  the  confusion  of  his  embarrass- 
ment, he  forgot  that  he  was  proclaiming  his  innocence  in 
the  ear  of  him,  who  would  take  his  hurried  disclaimer  as 
the  strongest  evidence  of  guilt.  For  the  moment  he 
forgot  that  an  eye  had  been  upon  him  all  that  day ;  that 
it  looked  in  upon  the  first  impulses  of  his  passionate 
heart ;  that  it  watched  the  fearful  struggle  that  was  going 
on    there, — an    eye    from    which    he    could    not   escape, 


man's  responsibility  for  others.  281 

though  he  sought  his  victim  in  seclusion  from  the  gaze  of 
men,  but  which  blazed  in  upon  that  deed  of  darkness, 
and  counted  every  drop  of  innocent  blood,  and  followed 
the  murderer  home,  and  fixed  its  calm  clear  glance  upon 
him  when  he  was  called  to  his  account.  Oh  !  could  he 
have  remembered  the  character  of  him  before  whom  he 
stood,  he  would  not  have  added  such  madness  and  folly 
to  his  guilt,  but  would  have  stood  speechless  with  terror, 
or  have  prostrated  himself  in  humble  confession  for  his 
crime. 

And  we,  my  friends,  how  often  are  we  inclined  to 
attribute  our  own  short-sightedness  to  God.  Because  we 
cannot  follow  the  consequences  of  our  own  acts ;  because 
we  cannot  look  in  upon  the  soul  of  another,  and  defeat 
the  impression  we  have  made  ;  because  we  cannot  trace 
with  unerring  finger  the  progress  from  heart  to  heart  and 
from  age  to  age,  we  are  prone  to  imagine  that  he  who 
summons  us  to  our  account  is  equally  ignorant.  Oh  ! 
could  we  realize  that  to  him  the  small  and  the  great  are 
all  the  same,  and  each  compartment  in  his  moral  system 
has  a  firm  place  in  his  memory,  and  every  act  however 
trivial  he  traces  to  its  remotest  results,  our  humble  con- 
fession would  be,  we  are  verily  guilty  concerning  our 
brother.  And  if  we  could  bear  about  with  us  through 
life  the  thought  of  that  all-seeing  eye,  we  should  sympa- 
thize with  it  in  its  watchful  anxiety,  lest  the  susceptible 
natures  which  are  so  easily  moved,  should  by  our  influ- 
ence be  moved  wrong. 

III.  I  proceed  to  remark  that  God  certainly  will  call 
men  to  account  for  the  influence  they  exert  upon 
others. 

The  justice  and  impartiality  of  his  law  require  this. 
He  should  vindicate  the  constitution  he  has  established. 
If  he  has  united  men  so  indissolubly,  that  they  become, 
24* 


282  man's  responsibility  for  others. 

as  it  were,  a  part  of  each  other,  he  who  knows  how  to 
analyze  the  moral  commixture,  must  call  each  one  to 
answer  for  his  separate  portion  of  guilt.  And  throughout 
the  universe  of  God,  there  cannot  be  one  so  obscure  and 
mean,  that  no  notice  is  taken  of  the  share  he  communi- 
cates, and  the  share  he  receives  of  influence.  If  corrup- 
tion go  forth  from  his  silent  and  secret  abode,  but  to  taint 
the  atmosphere  which  other  men  breathe,  the  consistency 
of  the  divine  law  requires  that  it  should  be  brought  forth 
to  view,  and  forced  back  in  judgment  upon  the  source  to 
which  it  is  traced.  Or  if  corruption  enter^  though  it  be 
but  from  the  breath  of  a  passing  traveler,  yet  the  voice  of 
the  poor  man's  blood  cries  from  the  ground,  and  it  will 
one  day  deepen  into  the  tones  of  Jehovah  coming  to  the 
door  of  the  criminal's  heart,  with  the  startling  inquiry. 
Where  is  that  brother  whom  thou  hast  injured  !  The 
Bible  is  full  of  assurances  upon  this  solemn  subject. 
The  great  principle  upon  which  Christianity  is  founded, 
is  that  of  love  to  our  neighbor.  He  who  hides  his 
talents  in  a  napkin  cannot  escape  the  censure  or  the 
doom  of  an  unprofitable  servant.  There  is  no  denuncia- 
tion more  awful,  than  that  which  is  uttered  against  him 
by  whom  offences  come,  though  it  be  to  the  little  ones" 
of  Christ's  flock.  And  in  the  great  unfolding  of  the 
judgment  scene,  we  are  told  that  this  is  to  be  the  subject 
of  the  trial.  The  question  proposed  to  each  individual 
around  that  final  bar  will  be,  What  hast  thou  done  for  thy 
brother  1  And  if  his  spiritual  nature  was  famishing,  or 
exposed  to  corruption  and  disease,  and  thou  didst  not  put 
forth  thy  hand,  to  extend  to  him  the  food  of  the  word,  or 
to  point  him  to  the  great  physician,  or  to  draw  him  into 
the  ark  of  safety  ;  but  didst  rather  set  before  him  the 
unwholesome  sustenance  of  a  bad  example,  and  didst 
Jeave  him   to  perish  in  nakedness  within  his  dark  damp 


man's  responsibility  for  others.  283 

prison  house  of  sin, — then  shall  the  Judge  answer  and 
say,  Depart  from  me  ;  for  I  was  an  hungered  and  athirst, 
sick  and  in  prison,  and  ye  gave  me  no  aid. 

Our  moral  nature  will  respond  more  readily  to  no 
retribution,  than  to  that  which  we  suffer  for  the  neglect 
or  the  perversion  of  our  influence.  And  it  will  be  the 
bitterness  of  our  doom  in  another  world,  that  we  shall  be 
surrounded  by  those  who,  but  for  us,  would  not  have 
come  to  that  place  of  torment. 

My  Christian  brethren,  let  me  close  this  discourse  with 
one  word  of  appeal  to  you.  Do  you  consider  that  no 
man  liveth  for  himself,  and  no  man  dieth  for  himself? 
Through  life,  each  moral  act  sets  in  train  its  kindred 
actions  in  the  hearts  of  others,  and  every  new  act 
awakened  into  being  has  the  same  power  of  perpetuating 
and  multiplying  itself.  The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after 
them,  and  while  they  slumber  in  their  graves,  it  may  be 
possessing  all  the  power  of  its  first  impulse.  My  brother, 
you  not  only  possess  within  you  as  a  human  being  the 
elements  of  an  extensive,  a  never  ending  power,  but  as  a 
Christian,  you  possess  it  to  an  unusual  degree.  You  are 
like  a  city  set  upon  a  hill  that  cannot  be  hid.  Men  look 
upon  you  as  the  representative  of  goodness,  as  the  imita- 
tor of  Jesus ;  and  from  you  the  unspiritual  and  the 
worldly  will  judge,  what  is  religion,  and  who  is  Christ. 
Will  you  not  then  solemnly  put  to  yourselves  the  ques- 
tion this  evening,  whether  you  are  living  worthily  of  this 
exalted  eminence  ;  whether  the  world  are  taking  courage 
from  your  inconsistent  example  to  go  on  in  sin ;  whether 
the  members  of  Christ's  body  derive  warmth  and  refresh- 
ment from  their  communion  with  you,  and  go  from  your 
presence  with  new  views  of  the  preciousness  of  their 
faith.  Are  you  living  as  if  the  church  to  which  you 
belong  leaned  upon  you  ?     Are  you  strenuous  in  your 


284  man's  responsibility  for  others. 

endeavors  to  increase  its  spirituality,  and  to  multiply  its 
energies  ?  Can  you  point  to  a  soul  for  whose  conversion 
you  are  laboring  and  praying  vi'ith  a  faith  and  zeal  that 
will  not  tire  and  faint  ?  Do  you  cultivate  a  missionary 
spirit,  whereby  in  your  own  person  or  that  of  others,  you 
may  reach  the  desolate  neighborhoods,  the  wildernesses 
of  Zion  around  you  ?  Above  all,  do  you  watch  with  a 
godly  jealousy  over  your  own  daily  conduct  and  converse, 
determined  that  they  shall  speak  with  an  eloquence  indi- 
rect, unostentatious,  inoffensive,  but  powerful  upon  all 
who  witness  them  ?  Do  you  associate  with  men  of  the 
world,  as  one  impelled  by  higher  purposes,  and  cheered 
by  brighter  hopes,  and  subsisting  on  more  celestial  food  ? 
Does  religion  beam  from  your  eye,  does  it  animate  your 
countenance,  does  it  breathe  in  all  your  actions,  like  a 
living  reality  rather  than  a  cold  dead  profession  ?  My 
brethren,  what  we  do  must  be  done  quickly.  When  we 
are  in  our  graves,  not  we  but  ours  shall  be  working. 
We  shall  be  silent,  but  our  influence  will  be  living  and 
speaking  still.  Then  we  cannot  recall  the  idle  word,  or 
the  sinful  act,  which  may  be  moving  on  in  its  career  of 
mischief  But  now,  while  it  is  called  to-day,  if  we  do  but 
rouse  ourselves,  we  may  redeem  the  past,  we  may  check 
the  circulation  of  our  own  sins,  we  may  wake  up  to  the 
consciousness  of  who  we  are,  where  we  are,  and  what  we 
can  do.  God  shall  be  glorified,  and  souls  saved,  and 
Zion  rejoice  in  the  efficiency  of  her  sons.  And  when 
we  reach  our  heavenly  abode,  like  a  long  track  of  light 
and  beauty  shall  we  follow  the  blessed  influence  in  its 
eternal  work. 

My  friends,  let  us  all  consider  how  fearfully  and 
wonderfully  w^e  are  made,  and  that  it  becomes  us  to  walk 
softly  in  a  universe,  where  one  step  to  the  right  or  the 
left  may  be  fraught  with   consequences  so  stupendous. 


man's  responsibility  for  others.  285 

Let  us  lean  on  God,  who  alone  can  save  us  from  incur- 
ring the  awful  guilt  of  abusing  this  precious  talent,  and 
ruining  the  souls  of  men. 


NOTE. 

"This  sermon,"  says  an  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Homer,  "he 
regarded  as  a  mere  extemporaneous  effusion,  without  any  particular 
form  or  finish.  It  was  esteemed  by  his  hearers,  however,  as  one  of 
his  most  effective  discourses."  He  ordinarily  preached  it  as  an 
evening  lecture.  It  was  delivered  at  South  Berwick,  May  8,  1840  ; 
afterwards  at  Dover,  N.  H.,  South  Boston,  Portsmouth,  N.  H., 
Newmarket,  N.  H.,  Danvers,  Mass.,  Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  Rochester, 
N.  H.,  and  Great  Falls,  N.  H. 


SERMON   VIII 


CHARACTER  OF  PONTIUS  PILATE. 


AND  PILATE  GAVE  SENTENCE  THAT  IT  SHOULD  BE  AS  THEY  REQUIRED. 

Luke  23  :  24. 

There  is  an  air  of  veritable  narrative  about  the  New 
Testament,  which  distinguishes  it  from  all  other  religious 
books.  Its  scenes  and  characters  are  many  of  them  a 
part  of  general  as  well  as  sacred  history.  We  look  into 
the  records  of  other  religions,  and  we  find  that  the 
beings  and  events  they  treat  of  are  altogether  of  a  super- 
natural character,  and  such,  that  as  men  and  as  historians 
we  cannot  sympathize  with  them.  Even  the  Old  Testa- 
ment relates  to  a  people  peculiar  and  secluded,  and  as  the 
incidents  and  persons  it  brings  to  our  view  are  seldom 
recorded  in  the  annals  of  classical  literature,  they  often 
lack  the  breathing  form  of  historical  realities.  But  the 
New  Testament  marks  the  era  of  the  blending  of  sacred 
with  secular  history,  of  the  connection  of  the  Jews  with 
the  civilized  world,  the  world  with  which  Livy  and 
Tacitus  have  made  us  familiar  ;  and  this  second  revela- 
tion introduces  us  to  the  society  of  common  life ;  we 
recognize  as  old  acquaintances  the  characters  and  laws 
and  customs  brought  to  our  view ;  with  the  group  of 
martyrs   and    apostles  there  sometimes  mingle    the   iron 


CHARACTER    OF    PILATE.  287 

features  of  the  Roman  soldier,  and  our  faith  is  appealed  to 
with  a  directness  and  intimacy,  which  the  purely  religious 
narrative  could  never  acquire.  It  is  a  mark  of  peculiar 
wisdom,  that  the  most  momentous  event  which  the  Bible 
records,  is  brought  home  to  us  from  the  tribunal  of  a 
well  known  Roman  Procurator,  and  depicted  in  the 
familiar  forms  of  a  Roman  scourge  and  cross. 

The  character  and  history  of  Pontius  Pilate  are  not 
fully  given  in  the  gospels.  But  if  we  examine  the  secular 
traditions  in  connection  with  the  inspired  narrative,  they 
cannot  fail  to  throw  light  upon  each  other.  The 
accounts  of  the  trial  of  Jesus  seem  to  present  the 
governor,  as  characterized  by  general  weakness  of  prin- 
ciple rather  than  strongly-marked  depravity.  But  the 
record  of  his  administration  in  profane  history  is  stained 
with  every  atrocity.  Philo  describes  him  as  a  man  of 
obstinate  temper  and  imperturbable  arrogance,  and  speaks 
of  the  wantonness  with  which  he  condemned  the  inno- 
cent, and  the  cruelty  with  which  he  executed  the  laws. 
Incidents  are  related  by  the  several  historians  of  the 
period,  which  confirm  this  description.  On  one  occasion 
he  shocked  the  religious  feelings  of  the  Jews,  by  intro- 
ducing triumphal  images  of  Caesar  into  the  holy  city,  and 
even  provoked  the  emperor  to  a  rebuke.  At  another 
time  he  appropriated  the  sacred  treasure  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  an  aqueduct  to  Jerusalem,  and  when  the 
people  were  assembled  to  complain  of  the  outrage,  he  let 
loose  upon  them  his  soldiers  arrayed  in  the  common  cos- 
tume, like  so  many  blood-hounds  to  follow  up  and 
chastise  every  breathing  of  rebellion.  To  those  stern 
features  which  became  him  as  the  representative  of  the 
Roman  government,  he  seems  to  have  added  a  natural 
love  for  cruelty,  and  that  intense  hatred  of  the  Jews 
which  had  already  began  to  hunt  down  the  persons  and 
the  customs  of  that  ill-fated  race. 


288  CHARACTER    OF    PILATE. 

Such  was  the  man  selected  by  the  enemies  of  Jesus,  to 
consummate  their  own  infamous  proceedings.  His  ordi- 
nary residence  was  at  Cesarea,  but  he  had  come  up  to 
Jerusalem  at  this  time  of  the  Passover,  to  hold  a  criminal 
court,  as  well  as  to  suppress  any  tumult  which  might  rise 
amid  the  vast  gathering,  and  the  religious  excitements  of 
that  noted  festival.  There  were  various  reasons  which 
may  at  this  time  have  induced  the  Sanhedrim  to  transfer 
their  criminal  to  the  Roman  judicatory.  The  power  of 
inflicting  capital  punishment  had  been  already  removed 
from  their  hands,  and  although  they  need  not  have 
feared  a  strict  enforcement  of  the  regulation,  they  wished 
the  punishment  to  be  more  ignominious  and  cruel  than  it 
was  their  own  custom  to  inflict.  They  felt  moreover 
secret  misgivings  of  the  flagrancy  of  their  conduct,  and 
they  wished  to  throw  off"  the  responsibility  of  the  final 
issue  upon  one  whose  hardened  conscience  could  bear 
the  weight.  And  they  may  have  feared,  that  the  fickle 
populace  would  frustrate  their  designs  by  some  premature 
change  of  opinion,  or  that,  after  the  victim  had  fallen, 
the  buried  affections  of  the  multitude  would  rise  up  and 
call  for  vengeance  on  the  persecutors.  Agitated  by  a 
consciousness  of  wrong,  and  terrified  by  a  foreboding  of 
judgment,  they  gladly  sought  refuge  and  aid  in  the  very 
power  which  was  their  dread  and  hatred ;  and  they  felt 
safe  in  the  co-operation  of  a  government  proverbial  for  its 
recklessness  of  human  life,  swift  and  savage  enough  to 
gratify  their  own  insatiate  cruelty,  strong  enough  to 
silence  every  whisper  of  opposition,  and  wicked  enough 
to  make  this  outrage  appear  like  a  small  drop  in  an  ocean 
of  crime. 

It  was  at  about  five  o'clock  on  Friday  morning,  soon 
after  the  hour  of  sunrise,  when  they  hurried  away  from 
the  scene  of  their  own  nefarious  trial  in  the  high  priest's 
court  yard  to  the  palace  of  Herod,  where  Pilate  was  then 


CHARACTER    OF    PILATE.  289 

residing.  They  were  a  group  of  strongly  marked  figures. 
They  wore  the  despairing  aspect  of  the  last  men  of  a 
noble  race.  The  dignity  of  the  old  prophet  was  not 
there,  neither  did  the  faithful  waiting  for  the  promises 
light  up  those  features  with  the  smiles  of  hope.  They 
walked  along  that  dolorous  path  like  the  ghosts  of  ancient 
greatness.  The  ruins  of  the  Mosaic  law  seemed  to  totter 
in  their  steps.  It  was  as  if  they  were  going  to  their  own 
execution.  The  hour  of  their  degeneracy  had  arrived^ 
and  this  morning  it  might  be  read  in  pale  faces,  and  eyes 
bloodshot  and  strained  from  the  sleepless  and  exciting 
night,  and  the  curled  lip  that  betokened  uneasy  malice. 
Yet  they  are  eminently  conscientious  men,  and  in  all  the 
eagerness  of  their  errand  to-the  Pretorium,  they  will  not 
venture  within  the  heathenish  enclosure,  lest  they  become 
unfit  to  eat  the  passover.  Praiseworthy  punctiliousness  ! 
They  had  just  forgotten  the  once  fondly  cherished 
"  annise  and  cummin,"  in  their  heated  disobedience  to 
**  the  weightier  matters  of  the  law,"  for  *'to  condemn  the 
just,"  they  had  held  the  council  by  night,  and  consulted 
on  a  capital  crime  at  the  period  of  the  festival ;  but  now 
with  the  foolish  inconsistency  of  uneasy,  conscience- 
smitten  criminals,  they  stop  at  the  threshold.  "  Woe  to 
you,"  exclaims  an  old  divine,  "  Woe  to  you,  priests, 
scribes,  elders,  hypocrites !  can  there  be  any  roof  so 
unclean  as  that  of  your  own  breasts?  Not  Pilate's  walls, 
but  your  hearts  are  impure.  Is  murder  your  errand,  and 
do  ye  stick  at  a  local  infection  ?  God  shall  smite  you,  ye 
whited  walls.  Do  ye  long  to  be  stained  with  blood,  with 
the  blood  of  God  ?  and  do  ye  fear  to  be  defiled  with  the 
touch  of  Pilate's  pavement  ?  Doth  so  small  a  gnat  stick 
in  your  throat,  while  ye  swallow  such  a  camel  of  flagitious 
wickedness?  Go  out  of  yourselves,  ye  false  dissemblers, 
if  ye  would  not  be  unclean." 

As  it  was  the  policy  of  the   Roman  tribunal   to  humor 
25 


290  CHARACTER    OF    PILATE, 

such  prejudices,  the  governor  came  forth  to  meet  them  in 
the  open  air.  The  area  which  he  occupied  during  the 
trial  was  somewhat  elevated,  and  overlaid  with  a  tesselated 
stone  pavement.  Upon  this  was  placed  the  seat  of  judg- 
ment, one  of  those  small  painted  pieces  of  marble  which 
the  Roman  magistrates  carried  with  them  on  their 
journeys.  Thus  he  sat,  surrounded  by  the  accusers  and 
the  multitude,  while  Jesus  was  left  bound  and  guarded  in 
the  porch.  The  parley  began,  *'  What  accusation  do 
you  bring  against  the  man  ?  "  There  was  an  expression 
of  firmness  and  force  in  this  first  question  of  Pilate,  which 
surprised  and  intimidated  the  accusers.  They  had  sup- 
posed he  would  condemn  without  a  hearing.  Many  a 
time,  had  they  seen  him  exult  over  the  sufferings  of  the 
innocent,  and  they  knew  that  he  reveled  in  scenes  of 
blood.  But  now,  with  his  lips  pressed  together,  and  with 
the  attitude  and  mien  of  a  man  who  meant  to  weigh  the 
case  and  to  do  what  was  right,  he  comes  forward  and 
demands  a  fair  trial.  This  was  one  of  those  days  when 
the  good  Spirit  was  near  to  the  governor.  His  savage 
nature  seemed  softened  by  the  divine  presence.  He  had 
heard  of  Jesus,  and  his  conscience  reproved  him  that  he 
had  already  taken  sides  with  the  persecutors,  and  com- 
missioned his  soldiers  to  aid  the  band  that  apprehended 
him.  And  now  a  meek  look  from  the  prisoner  as  he  had 
passed  from  his  presence,  spoke  so  serenely  of  innocence, 
that  the  heart  of  the  Roman  was  touched  with  a  tender- 
ness that  had  not  warmed  it  before.  What  is  the  accusa- 
tion that  you  bring  ?  But  the  accusers  saw  their  plans 
thwarted ;  they  read  a  reflection  of  their  own  guilt  in  the 
justice  of  this  unjust  judge ;  and  it  was  with  the  petulance 
of  mortified  and  baffled  and  remorseful  men,  that  they 
smartly  replied,  "  If  he  were  not  a  malefactor,  we  would 
not  have  delivered  him  unto  thee."  We,  the  patterns  of 
morality  and  religion,  so  marvelously  strict  that  we  will 


CHARACTER    OF    PILATE.  291 

not  cross  your  polluted  threshold — and  can  you,  the 
representative  of  heathen  Rome,  the  blood-stained  gov- 
ernor, the  merciless  judge,  can  such  as  you  question  our 
justice  ?  Remorse  inflamed  their  suspicions,  and  disap- 
pointment roused  their  impudence.  Irritated  at  this 
contempt  of  court,  but  awed  by  the  determined  feelings 
which  prompted  it,  Pilate  mingles  in  his  answer  a  latent 
sarcasm,  with  his  first  attempt  to  throw  off  from  himself 
the  responsibility  of  what  seemed  inevitable.  *'■  Take  ye 
him,  and  judge  him  according  to  your  law."  Punish  him 
yourselves  if  yoia  can,  a«  for  me,  I  will  have  no  concern 
in  it.  He  felt  the  power  which  that  mass  of  opposition 
would  not  fail  to  gain  ov«r  him.  With  that  foresight 
which  often  accompanies  conscious  weakness,  he  read  his 
own  ruin  in  the  maddened  faces  of  the  crowd.  But  in  that 
\''ery  acknowledgment  of  imbecility,  in  that  very  effort  to 
run  away  from  the  struggle  to  which  hi-s  better  nature 
called  him,  he  loosened  the  ground  on  which  he  was 
standing,  he  threw  away  those  latent  energies  which  he 
might  have  summoned  for  a  glorious  conflict,  and  a  glori- 
ous victory  of  right.  "  Take  ye  him,  and  judge  him 
according  to  your  law." 

Yet  the  enemies  of  Jesus,  as  with  downcast  eyes  they 
replied  that  their  law  was  unavailing,  plainly  saw  that  the 
judge  was  not  to  be  trifled  with.  Having  collected  their 
thoughts  from  the  first  surprise  at  their  reception,  they 
looked  about  for  data,  with  which  to  prosecute  the  case. 
What  now  must  they  do,  in  this  novel  and  unexpected 
position.  It  was  hard  work  to  condemn  their  victim  even 
before  a  Jewish  court,  what  must  it  be  before  the  stern 
and  impartial  scrutiny  of  a  Roman  tribunal.  It  was  very 
evident  that  the  blasphemy  and  sacrilege  at  which  the 
president  of  the  Sanhedrim  had  seemed  on  the  evening 
previous  so  piously  enraged,  would  have  little  effect  on 
the  mind  of  a  heathen  judge.     They   must  devise  some 


292  CHARACTER    OF    PILATE. 

charge  gross  enough  for  him  to  appreciate,  and  one  too 
which  will  appeal  to  his  national  prejudices  and  his  selfish 
interests.  They  accordingly  present  an  accusation  of 
which  nothing  at  all  had  been  said  on  the  former  trial, 
and  with  which  as  Jews  they  could  have  no  concern, 
except  as  the  cringing  informers  of  the  government  that 
oppressed  them  ;  an  accusation  therefore  as  mean  as  it 
was  palpably  false  — that  he  had  set  himself  up  as  king, 
and  commanded  to  be  appropriated  to  his  own  use,  the 
tribute  that  was  due  to  Caesar.  Most  sensitive  would  the 
governor  be  to  such  a  charge,  for  the  provincial  revenue 
was  the  chief  object  of  his  official  guardianship,  and  the 
source  of  his  emolument.  He  felt  as  has  been  said,  "  his 
own  freehold  now  touched," — **  it  was  time  for  him  to 
stir."  Accordingly  he  withdrew  to  the  apartment  where 
Jesus  had  been  confined,  and  put  to  him  the  question 
with  a  mingled  expression  of  alarm  and  pity  :  "  Art  thou 
the  king  of  the  Jews  1  "  And  here  it  is,  that  the  super- 
ficial character  of  his  opinions,  and  the  general  weakness 
of  his  spirit  most  clearly  manifest  themselves.  The  pris- 
oner in  assenting  to  the  title,  explains  the  spiritual  and 
harmless  nature  of  his  kingdom,  and  his  high  destiny  as 
a  maintainer  of  the  truth.  But  all  this  was  beyond  the 
governor's  comprehension.  He  had  heard  of  the  learned 
discussions  of  the  Sophists,  of  the  kingdom  ascribed  by 
the  Stoics  to  their  great  men,  and  like  a  true  soldier  he 
disdained  what  was  mystical.  He  felt  its  political  harm- 
lessness,  but  he  did  not  see  its  moral  force.  To  his  eye 
it  was  a  figment  of  idle  scholasticism.  "  What  is 
truth  1 "  is  the  careless  half-jesting  question  with  which 
he  met  the  spiritual  mystery.  Oh!  had  he  but  paused 
for  an  answer,  had  he  lingered  to  gain  the  truth  as  it  is 
in  Jesus,  he  would  not  have  gone  back  to  be  tossed  about 
at  the  will  of  a  rabble,  he  would  have  carried  with  him  a 
talisman  potent  against  every  temptation.     Pilate,  thou 


CHARACTER    OF    PILATE.  293 

dost  bear  with  thee  the  truth,  though  a  sneer  is  on  thy 
visage,  but  ah  t  thou  art  destined  to  become  its  weak 
minister ;  for  when  its  fountain-head  was  opened  to  thee, 
thou  didst  turn  coldly  away. 

When  Pilate  returns  to  the  multitude  in  the  open  court, 
it  is  to  proclaim  aloud  the  innocence  of  Jesus.  But  ever- 
suggestive  malice  is  prepared  to  renew  the  conflict. 
Instantly  the  charge  takes  a  new  form — that  he  had  been 
guilty  of  stirring  up  the  people  to  sedition,  making  Gali- 
lee the  chief  seat  of  disturbances.  The  inhabitants  of 
(jfalilee  were  distinguished  for  a  love  of  liberty,  which 
theoretically  took  the  form  of  a  theocracy.  They  had 
moreover  rendered  themselves  peculiarly  obnoxious  to 
Pilate,  as  we  read  that  on  a  certain  occasion  he  had 
mingled  their  blood  with  their  sacrifices.  How  plausible 
and  ingenious  then  was  this  new  accusation  at  the  bar  of 
the  judge,  and  how  must  he  appear  to  the  government  at 
home,  as  the  already  indignant  populace  will  represent 
him,  if  he  acquit  the  man  accused  by  his  own  nation  as 
treacherous.  He  remembers  the  old  reproof  of  the 
emperor,  and  he  feels  his  dependence  on  the  good  feelings 
of  the  Jews.  But  stop !  "  beginning  at  Galilee " — 
instantly  a  new  thought  occurs  to  the  perplexed  governor. 
To  the  jurisdiction  of  Herod  the  prisoner  appropriately 
belongs.  He  will  send  him  to  the  Tetrarch.  There  was 
his  second  parley  with  conscience.  Another  barrier  of 
his  moral  nature  is  torn  away.  Weaker  and  weaker 
becomes  the  principle  of  justice.  Slowly  but  surely 
press  on  the  mob,  as  they  see  the  governor  yielding  inch 
by  inch.     Pilate  must  fall. 

Herod  was  now  occupying  another  part  of  the  same 
palace  where  Pilate  was  quartered.  He  was  a  weak- 
minded  man,  as  he  had  shown  himself  in  beheading  John 
to  please  a  giddy  girl.  He  received  Christ  as  if  he  were 
a  juggler.  He  treated  him  like  a  buffoon,  and  finally  sent 
25* 


294  CHARACTER    OE    PILATE. 

him  back  to  the  apartment  of  Pilate,  arrayed  in  the  worn 
out  habiliments  of  his  own  royalty,  but  clearing  him  from 
every  charge  of  guilt.  And  all  that  the  governor  gains 
from  this  miserable  subterfuge,  is  the  termination  of  his 
long  quarrel  with  Herod.  What  a  spectacle  when  the 
King  of  kings  becomes  the  involuntary  arbiter  between 
these  rival  and  petty  powers. 

What  now  shall  the  governor  do  ?  He  has  made  friends 
with  Herod,  but  not  with  conscience  or  the  Jews.  The 
dilemma  is  again  upon  him.  The  priests  and  elders 
stand  before  him  with  hungry  eyes.  The  stern  monitor 
worries  him  for  another  effort  to  release  the  prisoner. 
Added  to  the  monitions  from  within,  are  the  soft  beseech- 
ings  of  affectionate  alarm  from  without.  The  wife  of 
Pilate  had  accompanied  him  to  Palestine,  and  was  now 
with  him  at  Jerusalem.  This  was  contrary  to  the  provin- 
cial laws  of  the  Roman  government,  but  the  peculiar 
fondness  of  this  woman  had  probably  occasioned  a  special 
indulgence  in  the  case  of  Pilate.  In  the  brief  and  soli- 
tary mention  made  of  her,  she  seems  like  a  good  angel  in 
the  group  of  the  blood-thirsty  and  the  halting.  She  had 
heard  from  some  female  companion  the  story  of  Jesus, 
and  by  that  power  of  sympathy  with  which  his  person  and 
character  seem  uniformly  to  have  affected  her  sex,  her 
mind  became  intensely  excited.  Anxiety  for  his  fate 
made  her  dreams  feverish  and  frightful,  and  the  glimpse 
she  had  of  his  grief-worn  countenance  as  he  passed  along 
from  Herod's  hall,  recalled  to  her  memory,  and  invested 
with  new  and  terrible  meaning  the  visions  of  her  sleep. 
With  prophetic  eye  she  sees  the  fearful  doom  that  over- 
hangs her  own  family,  and  the  imploring  word  she  sends 
in  to  her  husband  is,  "  Have  thou  nothing  to  do  with  that 
just  man."  Along  with  that  voice  of  tenderness,  comes 
the  old  charge  from  the  maddened  Jews,  that  the  prisoner 
had  styled  himself  the  Son  of  God.     '•  And  when  Pilate 


CHARACTER    OF    PTLATE.  295 

heard  that,  he  was  the  more  afraid."  The  Roman  faith 
in  dreams,  and  a  superstitious  fear  that  perchance  some 
god  of  his  own  mythology  might  be  standing  at  his  bar, 
now  added  force  and  energy  to  the  appeals  of  conscience. 
He  i^  roused  to  another  effort  for  the  innocent,  but  ah  ! 
how  imbecile,  how  suicidal.  It  was  a  custom  of  the  Ro- 
man government,  to  secure  popular  favor,  by  occasionally 
releasing  prisoners,  and  the  Jewish  law  seemed  to  point 
to  the  passover  as  the  appropriate  season  for  this  act  of 
clemency.  There  was  another  Jesus  now  at  Pilate's  bar 
—a  man  hateful  for  every  atrocity — Barabbas,  or  Jesus 
the  son  of  Abbas.  He  will  let  them  choose  between  the 
two.  Surely  the  mild  and  gentle  one  will  have  greater 
claims  on  their  compassion,  and  they  will  cry  out  with 
one  voice  for  his  rescue.  But  oh  !  weak  governor,  dost 
thou  not  see  that  in  this  miserable  subterfuge,  thou  hast 
yielded  the  two  great  points  in  the  controversy,  and  sealed 
the  fate  of  the  man  thou  wouldst  fain  save?  Who  ever 
heard  of  release  or  pardon  for  one  on  trial,  and  uncon- 
demned  1  Thou  hast  admitted  in  this  very  proposal,  all 
that  the  insatiate  priests  have  thirsted  for,  that  Jesus  is 
guilty.  Thou  dost  not  distinguish  between  him  and  the 
robber  who  bears  his  name.  Thou  dost  give  up  thine 
own  right  of  judgment,  the  only  hope  of  the  innocent,  to 
a  prejudiced  and  infuriate  rabble  ;  and  canst  thou  wonder 
at  the  mad  shout  that  bursts  back  upon  thee  ?  "  Not  this 
man,  but  Barabbas."  Where  now  is  thy  conscience,  and 
the  dream  and  warning  of  thy  wife,  and  thy  own  sagacious 
plans.  Pilate,  there  is  but  one  step  more  for  thee  to  take. 
And  that  step  the  governor  is  not  long  in  taking, 
Foolish  man!  in  the  confusion  of  his  embarrassment,  he 
fancied  there  might  be  compassion  in  the  bosoms  before 
him,  and  to  that  he  would  make  one  touching  appeal. 
*'  I  will  therefore  chastise  him  and  let  him  go."  And 
accordingly  Jesus  is  handed  over  to  the  ruthless  soldiers 


296  CHARACTER    OP    PILATE. 

and  his  garments  are  stripped  off,  and  his  tender  flesh 
exposed  to  that  horrible  whip  under  which  many  a  hardy 
Roman  soldier  had  perished.  And  when  he  is  led  forth 
again  to  the  pavement  where  his  enemies  are  standing,  it 
is  with  his  limbs  lacerated  and  bleeding,  his  face  disfig- 
ured and  swollen,  his  bosom  heaving  with  the  feverish  ex- 
citement with  which  his  whole  system  was  agitated — and 
over  all,  were  gathered  the  insignia  of  mock  royalty, 
pressing  with  thorns  his  bleeding  forehead,  or  half  cover- 
ing with  military  garb  his  wounded  body.  Pilate  saith 
unto  them,  *'  Behold  the  man  ! "  Those  words  and  that 
scene  have  become  immortal.  Painters  have  dipped  their 
pencils  in  that  purple  robe,  and  sought  for  ages  to  depict 
that  expression  of  suffering  royalty.  The  church  of  God 
caught  up  the  motto  and  the  image,  and  pressed  them  to 
her  bosom.  But  those,  before  whom  they  stood  in  the 
power  and  freshness  of  life,  who  gazed  on  the  streaming 
wounds,  and  heard  from  cruelty  herself  a  pitying  voice, 
"  Behold  the  man,"  looked  sternly  and  coldly  upon  the 
scene.  "  Yea,  and  behold  him  well,"  exclaims  bishop 
Hall,  **  behold  him  well,  O  thou  proud  Pilate  !  O  ye  cruel 
soldiers  !  O  ye  insatiable  Jews  !  Ye  see  him  base,  whom 
ye  shall  see  glorious.  The  time  shall  surely  come,  wherein 
ye  shall  see  him  in  another  dress.  He  shall  shine,  whom 
ye  now  see  to  bleed  ;  his  crown  can  not  be  now  so  igno- 
minious and  painful  as  it  shall  be  once  majestical  and 
precious." 

Alas  for  Pilate,  he  knew  not  what  he  did.  There  are 
some  beasts  of  prey  whom  the  scent  or  the  sight  of  blood 
will  madden  with  such  ferocity,  that  the  appetite  must  be 
glutted  or  there  can  be  no  peace.  The  sight  of  the 
scourge  on  this  occasion  seems  to  have  inflamed  rather 
than  appeased  the  thirst  for  vengeance  ;  and  there  was 
one  dreadful  thought  which  it  suggested.  In  the  suc- 
cession of  Roman  punishment,  scourging  was  the  invari- 


CHARACTER    OF    PILATE.  297 

able  preliminary  of  crucifixion  ;  and  now,  they  who  have 
seen  the  prelude  must  behold  the  terrible  catastrophe. 
*'  Behold  the  man  !  "  —  but  the  shout  which  meets  that  ex- 
clamation of  pity  is,  "Crucify  him!"  ''Crucify  him!" 
And  with  that  stern  demand,  there  are  voices  of  warning 
which  reach  the  ear  of  the  appalled  governor.  "  If  thou 
let  this  man  go,  thou  art  not  Caesar's  friend." — "  Away 
with  him — Crucify  him  !  "  Pilate,  thine  hour  has  come. 
Tardy  has  been  the  process,  but  sure.  Thy  spiritual 
doom  is  now  consummated.  The  struggle  is  over.  Thy 
weak  nature  has  no  more  subterfuges  to  suggest.  Con- 
science will  not  again  lift  her  voice  to  be  trifled  with. 
Henceforth  thou  art  shattered,  bedridden,  the  wreck  of 
thy  former  manhood. 

**  Then  Pilate  took  water,  and  washed  his  hands  before 
the  multitude,  saying,  I  am  innocent  of  the  blood  of  this 
just  person  :  see  ye  to  it."  Empty,  vain  ceremonial — 
from  a  soldier,  from  a  Roman — yet  fit  emblem  of  the 
emptiness  of  principle  which  drove  him  to  that  cowardly 
refuge  ;  fit  emblem  of  the  vanity  of  such  a  plea  of  inno- 
cence. A  few  drops  of  water  to  wipe  out  that  "  damned 
spot,"  when  his  agonized  utterance  should  rather  have 
been, 

"  Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand  ?     No  !  this  my  hand  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine, 
Making  the  green — one  red." 

Well  has  an  old  English  poet  represented  him  as  under 
the  waves,  and  nothing  visible  but  his  hands  eternally 
washing  themselves. 

"  He  lookt  a  little  further,  and  espyde 

Another  wretch,  whose  carcas  deepe  was  drent 

"Within  the  river,  which  the  same  did  hyde ; 
But  both  his  handes,  most  filthy  feculent, 

Above  the  water  Avere  on  high  extent, 
And  faynd  to  wash  themselves  incessantly, 


298 


CHARACTER    OF    PILATE. 


Yet  nothing  cleaner  were  for  such  intent, 
But  rather  fowler  seemed  to  the  eye ; 
So  lost  his  labour  vaine  and  ydle  industry. 

The  knight  him  calling,  asked  who  he  was, 
Who  lifting  up  his  head,  him  answered  thus  : 

•  I  Pilate  am,  the  falsest  iudge,  alas  ! 
And  most  uniust,  that  by  unrighteous 

And  wicked  doome,  to  Jewes  despiteous, 
Delivered  up  the  Lord  of  life  to  dye, 

And  did  acquitc  a  murdrer  felonous, 

The  Avhyles  my  handes  I  washt  in  purity, 

The  whyles  my  soule  was  soyled  with  foul  iniquity.'  " 

There  are  several  important  moral  lessons,  which  the 
character  and  history  of  Pilate  invite  us  to  contemplate. 
To  a  few  of  these,  I   propose  now  to  call  your  attention. 

First,  We  see  the  influence  of  a  previous  bad  character 
in  leading  a  man  into  sin. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  terrible  retributions  of  a  course 
of  sin,  that  it  so  involves  the  crinnnal  that  he  seems  bound 
by  a  fatal  attraction.  "  He  is  in  so  far  in  guilt  that  sin 
will  pluck  on  sin."  The  act  committed  ages  ago  seems 
to  stand  by  his  side  this  very  day,  and  though  hated  and 
shunned  from  his  inmost  soul,  and  though  ten  thousand 
voices  cry  out  against  its  repetition,  there  is  a  dreadful 
sympathy  between  the  past  and  the  present  which  shapes 
the  destiny  of  the  sinner  for  ruin.  So  was  it  with  Pilate. 
If  he  had  sustained  the  character  of  an  equitable  judge, 
the  infuriated  mob  would  never  have  dared  to  commit  to 
him  the  fate  of  their  victim.  If  his  administration  had 
not  been  previously  corrupt,  he  would  not  have  been  ap- 
palled at  the  threats  of  the  populace.  Calm  and  unmoved 
he  would  have  faced  that  opposition,  fearlessly  would  he 
have  stood  forth  in  defence  of  right.  But  as  it  was,  his 
reputation  for  past  cruelty  was  the  very  circumstance 
which  involved  him  in  this  forced  and  reluctant  trans- 
gression. It  was  the  very  temptation  which  stood  like  a 
flaming  sword  at  the  threshold  of  reform,  baffling  every 
pure  purpose,  and  barring  his  progress  toward  virtue.     It 


CHARACTER    OP    PILATE.  299 

was  the  very  reminiscence  which  made  the  threats  of  the 
muhitude  so  pungent,  and  their  appeals  so  confident,  as 
to  a  man  who  had  become  weak  and  cowardly  under  long 
indulgence,  Alas  !  the  governor  has  no  weight  of  char- 
acter, with  which  to  withstand  the  solicitations  and  men- 
aces which  environ  him.  The  conviction  that  Jesus  is 
innocent,  forces  itself  upon  him  at  every  corner  to  which 
he  turns.  Conscience  utters  its  clear  note  of  duty.  And 
a  threatening  cloud  hangs  over  the  pathway  into  which  . 
his  cowardice  would  drive  him.  But  it  is  to  decayed  and 
decrepid  and  easily  subdued  sensibilities  that  the  call  is 
now  uttered,  and  he  has  but  a  tottering  form  with  which 
to  buffet  opposition.  The  moral  nature  of  the  man  is 
broken  down,  and  it  seems  as  if  he  must  go  wrong.  Oh  ! 
my  friend,  shun  the  sin  of  this  day,  if  you  would  not 
have  it  come  back  upon  you  like  a  monster  to  whom  you 
have  sold  yourself,  and  who  will  not  fail  to  return,  though 
it  may  be  after  long  delay,  to  claim  you  as  his  rightful 
victim.  At  the  very  moment  when  you  seem  most  near 
to  heaven  ;  at  the  very  moment  when  all  the  principles  of 
your  better  nature  are  rallying  for  your  rescue,  and  the 
bars  of  your  dungeon  are  almost  broken,  that  old  sin  ma^f 
come  back,  and  smile  coldly  upon  you  through  the  iron 
grate,  and  mock  your  weak  efforts  to  break  from  the  im- 
prisonment, and  beckon  you  back  to  its  old  fellowship, 
and  come  in  to  lie  down  with  you  upon  your  bed  of  rest- 
lessness, as  if  determined  to  allow  no  peace  to  your  sin- 
bartered  soul. 

Secondly,  We  may  learn  from  the  history  of  Pilate,  the 
importance  of  firmness  in  support  of  truth  and  right. 

When  a  man  wavers  from  the  first,  or  tries  to  compro- 
mise the  matter  with  his  conscience,  or  meet  duty  at 
half  way,  he  is  always  sure  to  be  driven  back  upon  the 
very  sin  he  is  almost  determined  to  avoid.  There  is  no 
neutral  ground  which  the  moral  nature  can  occupy  with 


300  CHARACTER    OP    PILATE. 

safety.  There  are  unseen  powers  at  work,  watching  its 
irregular  action,  looking  upon  its  doubts,  noting  down  its 
hesitancies,  and  taking  fresh  courage  from  every  lapse  to 
win  it  to  their  own  snares.  If  the  man  move  slowly  in 
the  pathway  of  duty,  and  ever  and  anon  look  wistfully 
back  upon  the  sin  he  is  leaving  behind,  and  instead  of 
settling  the  matter  by  one  bold  and  decisive  step,  is  veer- 
ing off  in  this  direction  and  that,  and  trying  to  shift  the 
responsibility,  and  pausing  and  trembling  and  doing  his 
little  right  with  a  pale  face  and  a  faltering  gait,  such  a 
man  must  fall  in  the  end.  So  have  we  seen  one  upon  a 
rock,  with  the  sea  circling  his  tabernacle  and  crossing  his 
pathway,  and  even  calling  to  him  as  with  a  mother's 
voice  ;  and  the  tide  and  the  waves  ever  gain  upon  him, 
and  already  presume  to  touch  with  their  damp  breath  the 
lower  fringes  of  his  garment,  and  it  is  only  by  one  despe- 
rate exertion  that  he  can  clear  the  flood,  and  rest  himself 
above  and  beyond  its  gaping  mouth — but  still  he  hesitates 
and  calculates  and  edges  along  his  little  island,  and  looks 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  advancing  billows  as  if  ashamed 
to  turn  his  back  on  danger,  and  all  the  while  the  surges 
boil  more  furiously,  and  the  ground  grows  slimy  beneath 
his  feet,  and  by  and  by  the  wet  spray  touches  his  fore- 
head ;  but  still  he  pauses  and  doubts  and  edges  along, 
till  the  irritated  sea  pours  over  him,  and  he  goes  to  be 
seen  no  more.  How  strikingly  did  this  weakness  and 
irresolution,  this  dallying  with  duty,  this  shuffling  of 
responsibility,  this  edging  along  upon  the  rock  instead  of 
leaping  to  the  shore,  seal  the  ruin  of  the  Roman  Gover- 
nor. Oh !  had  he  but  boldly  responded  to  that  look  which 
the  Saviour  gave  him  ;  had  the  majesty  of  the  old  Roman 
looked  out  at  his  eye  as  he  proclaimed  the  innocence  of 
the  victim ;  had  he  that  moment  laid  down  unhesitatingly 
the  parley  with  conscience,  all  would  have  been  well. 
But  no  !  afraid  to  act  right,  and  more  afraid  to  act  wrong, 


CHARACTER    OP    PILATE.  301 

he  is  tossed  about  between  these  two  terrors  till  he  hits 
upon  the  first  expedient  for  relief,  which  is  the  first  step 
in  a  downward  series  to  crime.  "Take  ye  him,  and 
judge  him  according  to  your  law."  Three  more  steps 
has  he  to  take  in  this  lingering  process,  each  essential, 
each  inevitable;  for  his  moral  nature  will  not  allow  him 
to  break  away  at  once  from  its  dictates ;  while  the  mob,  as 
they  read  only  of  ultimate  success  in  his  already  betrayed 
weakness,  press  on  till  they  push  him  down.  Conscience 
comes  back  to  his  rescue,  after  the  questioning  of  the 
criminal,  but  he  finds  refuge  from  its  clear  ghnce  in  the 
court  of  Herod,  and  takes  his  next  step  downward.  And 
now  yet  again  must  the  governor  pause,  when  even  the 
ferocious  Tetrarch  sends  back  the  prisoner  uncondemned 
—•and  the  safety  of  Herod's  friendship  would  encourage, 
and  the  dream  of  his  wife  would  warn,  and  the  still  un- 
subdued voice  within  would  make  one  more  appeal.  But 
no  !  he  has  gone  too  far  to  recede.  Barabbus  comes  to 
his  rescue,  and  helps  him  down  another  step,  and  the 
shouts  of  the  multitude  proclaim  that  his  descent  is  almost 
consummated.  And  at  last,  well-nigh  desperate  from  the 
long  struggle,  he  takes  the  scourge,  with  a  haste  so  til- 
advised,  that  it  does  but  arm  him  for  the  work  of  death 
he  has  not  dared  avoid,  and  as  little  dared  perform. 
Alas  !  such  eftorts  for  Christ,  prove  but  stopping  places 
of  crime,  where  he  can  pause  and  breathe,  before  collect- 
ing himself  for  the  last  great  sacrifice.  After  all  these 
struggles,  he  ends  by  condemning  to  death,  the  man 
whose  character  even  malice  cannot  impeach,  and  whose 
innocence  he  proclaims  with  the  very  breath  that  utters 
the  sentence.  And  this  lingering,  painful  process,  does 
Pilate  undergo,  rather  than  boldy  summon  his  moral  en- 
ergies for  one  simple  act  of  right.  Oh  !  my  friends,  when 
duty  claims  your  action,  look  it  steadily  in  the  face,  and 
turning  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  the  left,  march 
26 


302  CHARACTER    OF    PILATE. 

boldly  forward.  Conscience  holds  no  fellowship  with 
those  who  avail  themselves  of  an  effeminate  and  pusillani- 
mous policy,  for  keeping  friendship  with  both  right  and 
wrong.  Duty  lies  in  a  straight  line.  It  is  the  shortest 
possible  distance  between  two  points,  your  own  soul  and 
right.  If  you  come  at  it  by  an  angle,  you  come  the 
roundabout,  wrong  way.  You  satisfy  neither  conscience 
nor  the  devil.  You  make  a  war  within  you,  which  will 
not  terminate  till  you  go  back  and  stop  at  the  wrong 
angle. 

Thirdly,  We  may  learn  from  the  history  of  Pilate,  that 
a  regard  for  popular  favor,  when  opposed  to  conscience 
and  right,  will  often  defeat  its  own  ends. 

The  exclusive  study  of  present,  immediate  effect  is  al- 
most always  at  the  expense  of  ultimate  reputation.  The 
very  restlessness  which  prompts  to  a  sacrifice  of  duty  on 
the  altar  of  human  applause,  betrays  a  want  of  self-respect 
and  dignity  of  character  which  the  multitude  will  in  the 
end  despise.  That  is  the  true  basis  of  lasting  popularity, 
which  lifts  itself  firmly  in  defence  of  truth,  which  heeds 
not  the  paroxysms  of  rage,  which  displays  such  elements 
of  character  as  the  sober,  matured  thought  of  the  people 
will  be  proud  to  claim  in  support  of  their  rights.  The 
traitor  of  his  country  or  his  party  is  almost  always  in  the 
end  despised  by  the  enemy  whom  he  has  staked  all  to 
gratify,  and  the  hosts  of  darkness  will  jeer  at  no  victim 
with  bitterer  scorn,  than  him  who  sold  the  birthright  of 
his  moral  nature,  for  the  breathings  of  one  day's  applause. 

So  was  it  with  Pilate.  He  might  have  known  that  he 
was  giving  himself  up  to  the  force  of  a  temporary  excite- 
ment. He  might  have  known  that  the  deep,  settled 
hatred  against  Jesus,  was  confined  to  a  limited  cabal, 
while  the  phrenzy  of  the  mob  would  soon  subside.  Had 
he  stood  out  boldly  against  the  torrent,  the  mass  of  the 
people  in   the   reaction  of  their  excitement,  would   have 


CHARACTER    OP    PILATE. 


303 


rallied  around  him  as  a  favorite.  But  in  the  confusion  of 
the  moment  he  was  as  insane  as  he  was  wicked,  and  he 
did  but  pave  the  way  for  his  own  downfall. 

There  is  another  mode  in  which  this  motive  in  a  bad 
man,  will  defeat  its  own  end.  It  often  places  him  in  a 
position  of  fictitious  popularity.  The  favor  that  sur- 
rounds him,  is  as  phrenzied  as  that  which  hurried  him  to 
sin.  He  revels  in  the  luxury  of  smiles,  till  it  proves  his 
ruin.  His  passions  grow  rampant  in  ihe  short-lived  sun- 
shine, till  they  bring  upon  themselves  swift  retribution. 
So  was  it  with  Pilate.  In  reward  for  the  indulgence  he 
had  granted  the  Jews,  he  seems  to  have  assumed  for  him- 
self an  unbridled  license  of  cruelty.  A  short  time  after, 
a  real  impostor  appeared  in  Samaria,  and  in  quelling  this 
new  excitement,  the  governor  practiced  upon  the  princi- 
ples he  had  learned  at  the  trial  of  Jesus,  and  conducted 
himself  with  a  brutal  recklessness,  which  could  be  borne 
no  longer.  The  very  men  who  had  urged  him  to  crucify 
our  Lord,  and  for  whom  he  had  violated  the  sacred  rights 
of  conscience,  now  rose  in  a  body,  and  demanded  his 
removal.  Even  the  court  of  Rome  shunned  the  society 
of  the  favor-seeking  office-holder.  He  was  at  length 
driven  to  a  place  of  exile,  where  like  Judas  "  he  went  out 
and  hanged  himself."  Fit  end  for  the  traitor  and  the 
cringing  judge,  and  the  applauses  of  the  multitude  proved 
as  worthless  to  the  one,  as  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  to 
the  other  ;  for  they  too  did  but  purchase  a  burial-place 
for  the  bribed. 

There  is  still  another  respect  in  which  we  may  see 
how  suicidal  is  a  course  like  Pilate's.  The  very  act 
for  which  he  threw  away  his  conscience,  that  he  might 
please  the  Jews,  and  avoid  the  anger  of  Caesar,  is  the 
same  that  has  given  him  an  immortality  of  infamy. 
Throughout  the  world,  wherever  the  name  of  Pontius 
Pilate  is  mentioned,  it  is  to  reproach  his  wanton  injustice 


304  CHARACTER    OF    PILATE. 

in  delivering  Jesus  to  be  crucified.  It  is  a  stigma  eter- 
nally attached  to  his  character.  He  is  known,  he  is 
remembered  for  nothing  else  Yea,  a  direful  retribution 
has  burst  upon  him  from  the  very  source  of  which  he  was 
most  in  terror.  Oh !  my  friends,  there  is  a  kind  of 
ambition,  which  is  noble  and  dignified,  and  worthy  of 
moral  beings — and  it  is  so,  because  it  arrays  itself  against 
that  principle,  which  so  often  leads  to  mischief  When 
you  find  the  fear  of  the  world  frightening  you  from  duty, 
or  the  love  of  the  world  alluring  you  to  sin,  oh!  that  you 
would  pause  a  moment,  and  enlarge  the  sphere  of  your 
vision,  before  you  act.  Remember  that  the  world  is 
more  than  that  gathering  of  friends  whose  praises  you 
court,  whose  taunts  you  shun.  It  comprehends  the  infin- 
ity of  duration,  the  universe  of  being.  Act  as  if  such  a 
world  were  indeed  watching  you,  as  if  all  posterity  were 
looking  in  at  the  door  of  your  heart,  as  if  eternity  fixed 
its  calm,  clear  gaze  upon  you  ;  and  '*  surrounded  by  so 
great  a  cloud  of  witnesses,"  you  dare  not  act  wrong. 
Oh  !  how  the  plaudits  of  the  present,  will  fade  away 
before  one  glance  from  the  keen-sighted,  deep-voiced 
future.  How  mean  will  appear  the  ambition  which  is 
limited  by  life,  compared  with  that  which  is  eternal  and 
all-pervading  as  conscience. 

Fourthly,  We  may  learn  from  this  subject  that  a  bad 
man  may  become  God's  agent  in  the  accomplishment  of 
good. 

An  old  divine  has  remarked,  that  the  dream  of  Pilate's 
wife  may  have  been  suggested  by  Satan,  in  order  to  pre- 
vent the  crucifixion  of  an  atoning  Saviour.  But  no  effort 
of  the  prince  of  darkness,  any  more  than  the  strugglings 
of  human  depravity  can  frustrate  the  purposes  of  the 
Almighty.  He  fixes  his  calm  eye  on  the  operations  of 
his  universe,  and  the  conflicts  of  nations  and  the  strifes 
of  men,  are  the  parts  of  his  counsel,  and  do  but  subserve 


CHARACTER    OF    PILATE.  305 

his  great  designs.  Whoever  doubted  the  liberty  of  the 
Roman  Governor  ?  Who  can  have  failed  to  notice  in  his 
sad  history,  the  marks  of  an  inward  struggle  where  the 
laws  of  his  own  mind,  and  the  dictates  of  his  free,  moral 
nature  were  at  work.  And  yet  how  the  sacred  history 
reminds  us  that  each  event  was  foreshadowed  by  prophe- 
cy,  and  transpired  in  wonderful  harmony  with  the  purpose 
of  God.  As  has  been  well  observed,  "  It  is  Pilate's 
tongue  that  says,  I  find  in  him  no  fault  at  all.  It  is  the 
Jews'  tongue  in  Pilate's  mouth  that  says,  Let  him  be 
crucified.  That  cruel  sentence  cannot  blot  him  whom 
this  attestation  cleareth,"  neither  does  that  long  struggle 
retard  one  moment  the  designs  of  Jehovah,  How  a 
divine  hand  seems  to  be  upon  the  governor,  determined 
to  make  each  step  of  his  erring  nature  speak  forth  of  the 
innocence  and  divinity  of  his  victim.  How  an  Almighty 
Power  is  controlling  and  guiding  every  event  in  the 
direction  of  that  greatest  product  of  benevolence,  the 
redemption  of  tlie  world  by  the  death  of  Jesus.  And  the 
act  which  is  the  last  yielding  of  a  tempted  man,  becomes 
"  the  wisdom  and  power  of  God  unto  salvation."  Oh  ! 
man,  whosoever,  wheresoever  thou  art,  that  thinkest  by 
thy  weak  resistance  to  frustrate  the  counsel  of  Jehovah, 
consider  this :  an  eye  discerns  and  superintends  thy 
slightest  motions  ;  a  power  is  working  in  thee  and  with 
thee,  and  bearing  thee  onward  to  consummate  the  pur- 
poses of  thy  being.  Though  it  is  thyself,  the  free,  the 
manly,  the  godlike,  that  acts,  thou  canst  not  hope  by  thy 
mad  efforts  to  thwart  one  plan  of  thy  Maker,  or  to  de. 
range  that  great  wheel  in  which  thou  art  revolving.  And 
in  anguish  thou  shalt  one  day  behold,  how  all  the  strug. 
glings  of  thy  distempered  nature,  and  the  crafty  plans  of 
sin  thou  didst  devise,  did  but  work  together  for  the  glory 
of  Him  who  created  thee.  Thou  shalt  suffer  for  that 
thou  didst  intend,  rather  than  that  thou  didst  iiooomplish, 
2Q* 


306 


CHARACTER    OF    PILATE. 


The  evil  is  all  thine  own,  the  good  is  all  thy  God's.     Yea, 
*'  the  wrath  of  man  shall  praise  Thee." 

Finally,  Let  no  one  of  us  say,  If  I  had  heen  upon  that 
judgment  seat,  Christ  should  not  have  been  so  con- 
demned. 

My  friends,  are  we  not  conscious,  some  of  us,  of  pos- 
sessing similar  elements  in  our  own  character.  Is  our 
past  life  so  spotless,  that  we  never  find  ourselves  involved 
in  new  sin,  by  the  fellowship  of  old  transgression,  or  the 
power  of  long-cherished  habit  ?  Do  we  not  hesitate  and 
waver,  and  choose  the  rivers  of  Damascus  rather  than  the 
waters  of  Israel,  and  try  to  make  a  truce  with  con- 
science, by  doing  half  our  duty  ?  And  at  the  very 
moment,  when  we  are  ready  to  yield,  does  not  the  fear  of 
the  world  alarm,  and  do  not  its  voices  and  its  charms 
sometimes  drag  us  back  from  virtue  ?  Oh  !  my  impeni- 
tent friend,  I  think  I  behold  Jesus  this  day  standing  at 
the  bar  of  your  heart,  and  pleading  for  his  long  neglected 
rights.  There  are  passions  within,  that  gaze  with  fierce 
countenance  upon  the  meek  one,  and  goad  you  on,  to 
consummate  your  sin  by  crucifying  him  afresh.  But 
there  are  better  affections  which  prompt  you  to  look 
tenderly  upon  the  self-arraigned  ;  and  conscience,  like  a 
fond  queen  that  watches  and  weeps,  sends  in  its  notes  of 
remonstrance,  and  calls  up  its  visions  of  terror. — **  Many 
things  have  I  suffered  this  day  in  a  dream  because  of  him." 
Fearful  is  the  struggle  of  your  moral  nature.  For  a 
moment,  you  hope  to  conciliate  the  hostile  parties,  and 
your  agitated  mind  betakes  itself  to  Herod's  bar,  to  an 
act  of  compromise,  to  the  delay  of  a  more  convenient 
season.  But  again  the  conflict  returns,  and  closer  and 
hotter  upon  each  other  press  the  opposing  ranks,  and 
louder  waxes  the  voice  of  duty  and  the  call  of  crime. 
And  then  some  darling  sin  comes  forth  for  competition, 
and  lays  itself  down  on  the  altar  of  sacrifice,  and  mocks 


CHARACTER    OF    PILATE.  307 

you  with  menaces  of  departure,  and  presses  you  this 
instant  to  choose  betwen  itself  and  Christ,  while  the 
alarmed  passions  raise  the  infuriated  shout,  *'  not  this 
man,  but  Barabbas."  Yet  still  you  hesitate  and  waver — 
the  scourge  is  in  your  hand,  the  cross  is  before  you,  but 
you  know  not  whether  to  nail  upon  it  your  Saviour  or 
your  sin.  And  now  fear  raises  her  pallid  form,  and  cries 
out  as  with  ten  thousand  voices,  *'  If  thou  let  this  man 
go,  thou  art  not  Caesar's  friend."  Oh  !  my  brother,  take 
heed  how  this  trial  terminate.  Take  heed  in  memory  of 
that  great  assize,  where  Pilate  and  thou  and  I  shall  one 
day  stand.  Then  shall  the  terms  and  the  parties  in  con- 
troversy be  changed.  Then  shall  He  sit  upon  the 
judgment  seat  of  the  world,  who  now  stands  imploringly 
before  the  judgment  seat  of  our  souls. 


NOTE. 

The  preceding  discourse  was  regarded  by  Mr.  Homer  as  his  most 
elaborate,  and  in  some  respects,  his  best.  It  cost  him  an  extensive 
perusal  of  German  commentaries,  of  Philo,  Josephus,  and  other 
ancient  authors.  He  never  preached  it  to  his  ovv^n  people  ;  for  his 
aim  in  the  ministry  was,  not  to  advance  his  own  reputation,  but  to 
consult  the  good  of  his  hearers  ;  and  the  state  of  his  society  re- 
quired, during  the  brief  period  of  his  ministration  a  different  style 
of  address  from  that  which  he  has  here  adopted.  He  preached  the 
sermon  first  at  Andover,  Theological  Chapel ;  afterwards  at  Dan- 
vcrs,  Mass. ;  Salem,  Crombie-street  church ;  Boston,  Park-street 
church  ;  Buffalo,  N.  Y. ;  and  Exeter,  N.  H.  He  was  intending  to 
preach  it  at  South  BcrAvick  as  soon  as  the  wants  of  his  people 
required. 


SERMON  IX 


THE  NEGLECT  OF  DUTY  AN  OCCASION  OF  POSITIVE 

SIN. 


IF  THOU  DOEST  NOT  WELL,  SIN  LIETH  AT  THE  DOOR. — Gcnesis  4  :  7. 

It  has  been  supposed  by  some  critics,  that  the  warning 
in  the  text  is  founded  upon  a  mode  of  personifying  sin 
peculiar  to  the  Hebrew  theology.  These  critics  imagine 
that  sin  is  here  represented  as  a  reptile  crouching  at  the 
door  of  the  human  heart,  watching  its  actions  and  emo- 
tions, and  ready  to  burst  in  upon  it  in  its  moments  of 
sluggishness  or  repose.  Whether  this  interpretation  be 
the  right  one,  I  care  not  now  to  decide.  If  it  be  correct, 
however,  the  image  must  not  be  carried  beyond  the  gene- 
ral principle  it  is  meant  to  shadow  forth.  It  cannot  be 
designed  to  intimate  under  this  imagery  that  sin  is  actually 
something  without  the  soul,  independent  of  the  will — a 
power  tyrannizing  over  the  man  in  his  hours  of  spiritual 
exhaustion,  and  when  he  cannot  escape  or  resist  its  wiles. 
Sin  is  the  free  act  of  a  moral  agent,  and  beyond  the 
sphere  of  that  free  action,  it  has  no  existence  but  that 
which  is  fictitious  or  figurative.  Neither  can  the  text 
imply  that  the  neglect  to  do  well  would  be  harmless,  pro- 
vided it  were  not  followed  by  positive  transgression.  The 
sin  of  omission  may  be  as  aggravated   as  the  sin  of  com- 


EVILS  OP  NEGLECTING  DUTY.  309 

mission  ;  and  when  the  man  has  neglected  known  duty, 
there  is  no  further  step  for  him  to  take  in  order  to  be  in  a 
state  of  sin,  for  he  is  already  there.  The  simple  princi- 
ple which  the  above-named  interpreters  would  educe  from 
the  text  is,  that  the  least  cessation  from  activity  in  well- 
doing leaves  the  heart  peculiarly  exposed  to  the  power  of 
temptation,  and  will  often  result  in  outbreakings  of  de- 
pravity which  were  before  unsuspected.  "If  thou  doest 
not  well,  sin  lieth  at  the  door,"  or,  by  that  pregnant  con- 
struction so  frequent  in  the  language  of  Scripture,  it  lieth 
at  the  door,  and  will  surely  enter  to  claim  possession  of 
thy  soul.  If  thou  live  in  neglect  of  plain  and  admitted 
duty,  besides  the  guilt  of  that  negligence,  thy  moral  nature 
is  deprived  of  its  great  inward  power  of  repelling  sin,  and 
by  that  first  criminal  omission  thou  dost  start  in  a  down- 
ward career  which  will  not  cease  till  thou  retrace  thy 
steps  and  satisfy  the  first   demand  of  conscience  for  duty. 

It  will  be  my  object,  not  to  defend  the  interpretation 
which  has  been  given,  but  to  assume  it,  as  I  may  rightly 
do  by  way  of  accommodation,  and  to  apply  the  words 
thus  interpreted,  to  those  who  have  already  commenced 
the  religious  life,  and  I  shall  attempt  to  show,  that  the 
neglect  of  known  duty  will  be  likely  to  lead  the  Christian 
into  positive  sin. 

I.  One  argument  in  support  of  this  proposition  is,  that 
such  a  neglect  will  weaken  the  power  of  conscience  to 
restrain  him  from  sin. 

Every  Christian  is  sensible  how  much  he  is  dependent 
upon  the  clear  and  regular  action  of  this  inward  monitor. 
If  it  utter  its  notes  of  warning  with  distinct  and  manly 
tone,  if  it  hold  back  the  tempted  soul  with  a  giant's  grasp, 
its  right  may  be  vindicated  in  the  darkest  and  most  try- 
ing hour.  But  if  it  speak  with  a  hesitating  utterance  or 
touch  with  a  timid  hand,  the  slightest  wave  may  sweep 
over  its  fortresses,  the  slightest  volition   may   defeat   its 


310  EVILS  OF  NEGLECTING  DUTY. 

sway.  Now,  for  a  healthful  and  active  state  of  the  moral 
faculty,  there  is  nothing  so  essential  as  a  complete  and 
symmetrical  development  of  the  Christian  character  ; 
such  a  development  as  is  secured  only  by  the  active  exer- 
cise of  all  its  powers,  by  the  faithful  discharge  of  all  its 
duties.  Conscience  is  a  most  sensitive  agent — easily  of- 
fended, easily  diseased.  If  it  be  slighted  or  corrupted  in 
one  department  of  its  agency,  it  will  avenge  the  neglect 
or  show  the  fruits  of  the  corruption  through  the  whole 
range  of  its  administration.  To-day,  it  comes  to  the 
Christian  urging  his  performance  of  duty  ;  to-morrow,  it 
presses  him  to  fly  from  sin.  As  is  the  obedience  he  ren- 
ders now  to  its  clear  injunction,  so  will  be  the  readiness 
with  which  it  will  afterwards  return  to  avert  his  danger. 
This  is  the  great  law  of  reciprocity  which  pervades  his 
moral  constitution.  If  to-day  he  turn  coldly  from  the 
beseeching  voice,  or  defer  the  call  to  duty  to  a  more  con- 
venient season,  or  deliberately  choose  a  state  of  easy, 
quiet  disobedience  ;  to-morrow,  when  conscience  finds 
him  hard-pressed  by  the  world,  and  just  falling  a  prey  to 
temptation,  it  comes  to  him  as  one  who  has  broken  his 
truce,  who  merits  not  and  desires  not  its  moral  aid,  who 
will  listen  but  feebly  though  it  speak  in  thunder  tones — 
and  its  diffident  warning  is  scarcely  heard  amid  the  uproar 
of  passion.  Only  the  Christian  who  does  his  duty  with 
fidelity  and  constancy,  can  maintain  a  peace  with  his 
great  moral  guide,  and  bear  about  within  him,  a  protector 
which  shall  never  fail  him.  But  he  who  is  negligent  and 
careless  of  the  work  which  God  and  his  moral  nature  en- 
join upon  him,  is  ever  removing  farther  and  farther  be- 
yond the  sphere  of  conscience,  and  as  has  been  said,  "  to 
him  its  voice  is  low  and  weak,  chastising  the  passions  as 
old  Eli  did  his  lustful  domineering  sons :  Not  so,  my 
sons,  not  so."  It  has  lost  the  consciousness  of  its  own 
power.     Its  original  manhood  is  gone. 


EVILS  OF  NEGLECTING  DUTY.  311 

II.  I  proceed  to  notice  as  another  circumstance  which 
exposes  the  negligent  Christian  to  sin,  that  his  moral 
habits  have  become  perverted. 

We  are,  as  has  been  often  observed,  creatures  of  habit; 
and  it  is  a  wise  provision  of  our  Creator,  encouraging  us 
in  the  path  of  duty,  and  warning  us  at  the  very  threshold 
of  a  life  of  sin.  He  who  is  faithful  to  the  demands  of 
duty  has  a  strong  auxiliary  against  sin,  in  the  rectitude 
and  regularity  of  his  habits.  The  course  of  virtue  be- 
comes for  him  the  easiest  course.  The  constant  exercise 
of  any  part  of  the  bodily  system  will  invariably  strengthen 
those  faculties  which  are  called  into  use,  and  render  their 
action  more  easy  and  more  efficient.  And  in  the  spiritual 
system  the  eye  that  has  been  ever  occupied  with  moral 
beauty  becomes  quick  to  discern  its  graces  or  its  blem- 
ishes, and  the  arm  that  has  been  exercised  and  strength- 
ened in  the  line  of  Christian  activity,  has  acquired  vigor 
to  wrestle  with  temptation,  and  to  batter  down  the  arts  of 
sin.  The  affections  too  have  all  been  cultivated  in  the 
life  of  rectitude;  the  love  of  goodness  has  been  constantly 
increasing  with  its  exercise,  and  sin  has  become  more  odious 
as  the  soul  has  risen  above  its  transitory  joys.  For  the 
momentary  raptures  of  sinful  pleasure,  such  a  well  educa- 
ted nature  will  never  leave  the  steady  and  delightful 
sources  of  its  elevated  happiness.  By  constant  exercise 
it  has  fortified  itself  against  the  inroads  of  moral  decrepi- 
tude, and  inclosed  itself  round  about  as  with  walls  of  ad- 
amant. But  it  is  not  so  with  the  Christian  who  has 
broken  in  upon  the  harmony  and  evenness  of  his  own 
spiritual  constitution  ;  who  has  suffered  some  links  in  the 
golden  chain  to  be  lost,  some  stones  to  be  pushed  out  from 
the  perfect  structure;  who  has  learned  the  first  lessons  of 
sin  by  forsaking  the  path  which  conscience  pointed  out  to 
him  ;  who  has  weakened  his  powers  of  spiritual  action  by 
suffering   them   to  lie  dormant ;  above  all,   who   has  lost 


312  EVILS    OF    NEGLECTING    DUTY. 

the  sweetness  of  a  sense  of  inward  purity  which  demands 
no  higher  love,  no  higher  joy.  When  temptation  comes 
to  him,  he  cannot  meet  it  with  that  love  of  holiness  be- 
gotten only  by  the  constant  maintenance  of  an  active, 
holy  life.  And  the  habit  he  has  acquired  of  neglecting 
Christian  duty,  makes  it  now  his  most  natural  course  to 
neglect  the  great  duty  of  resisting  sin. 

III.  The  neglect  of  duty  may  deprive  the  Christian  of 
that  which  is  directly  and  purposely  designed  to  restrain 
him  from  sin. 

God  has  so  ordered  it  that  the  spiritual  nutriment  of 
his  children  is  obtained  in  the  performance  of  Christian 
duty.  This  is  the  economy  of  religion.  The  man  who 
is  faithful  to  the  requirements  of  his  God,  is  furnished  with 
so  many  barriers  against  temptation,  while  the  negligent 
and  sluggish  disarm  themselves  of  every  weapon  with 
which  they  could  conquer  the  spiritual  foe.  The  man 
who  is  faithful  and  diligent  in  the  study  of  God's  word, 
cannot  read  those  indignant  reproofs  of  sin,  and  those 
exposures  of  its  awful  consequences,  without  having  his 
hatred  and  his  dread  increased,  and  the  lamp  he  lights  at 
such  an  altar  will  not  soon  go  out.  The  man  who  communes 
daily  with  God,  who  pours  out  to  him  his  soul  in  secret 
penitence,  who  prays  for  spiritual  strength,  will  secure  the 
aid  for  which  he  asks,  will  avoid  the  sin  for  which  he 
mourns,  will  be  raised  above  the  power  of  earth  by  assimi- 
lation with  the  Infinite  and  Holy.  The  man  who  fre- 
quents the  communion  of  the  saints,  in  whose  soul  is  a 
warm  tide  of  Christian  sympathy,  who  watches  with  fond 
jealousy  for  the  good  of  his  brethren,  will  find  in  turn  his 
own  errings  kindly  traced  and  reproved,  his  own  feet  re- 
called by  tender  and  watchful  affection,  his  own  soul  puri- 
fied by  intimacy  with  the  friends  of  Jesus,  The  man 
who  prays  and  labors  for  the  conversion  of  sinners,  shall 
not  only  hide,  but  prevent  a  multitude  of  his  own   sins. 


EVILS    OF    NEGLECTING    DLTV.  313 

He  will  be  more  careful  for  the  consistency  of  his  exam- 
ple, and  at  each  temptation  to  stray,  he  will  be  frightened 
back  by  the  prospect  of  injured  and  ruined  souls.  The 
man  who  devotes  his  property  to  the  service  of  the  church, 
is  not  tempted  to  revel  in  earthly  vanities,  or  to  cling  to 
his  treasures  with  a  miser's  grasp.  And  through  the 
whole  course  of  Christian  action,  there  is  not  a  duty 
which  does  not  receive  its  corresponding  reward.  But 
the  man  who  looks  coldly  and  infrequently  upon  his  Bible, 
who  is  a  stranger  in  his  closet,  who  shuns  the  company  of 
Christ's  flock,  who  has  no  love  for  souls,  no  devotion  to 
the  cause  of  charity, — such  a  one  throws  away  his  best 
armor.  The  contest  that  goes  on  within  his  soul  is  an 
unequal  contest.  On  one  side,  is  a  depraved  nature  with 
propensities  alert  and  active  and  craving  for  indulgence  ; 
on  the  other,  is  the  principle  of  holy  love  famished  for 
want  of  nutriment,  unarmed  with  the  panoply  of  duty, 
and  unable  to  repress  the  onset.  What  wonder  that  the 
Christian  falls  into  frequent  sin  if  he  neglect  the  only, 
the  divinely  appointed  means  for  his  own  rescue. 

IV.  The  neglect  of  duty  will  deprive  the  Christian  of 
the  influence  of  a  good  hope. 

Hope  is  one  great  incentive  to  spiritual  exertion  ;  a 
most  important  aid  to  successful  striving  against  sin. 
There  are  many  portions  of  the  church,  where  the  worst 
thing  that  is  said  of  a  man  is  that  he  has  lost  his  hope. 
In  that  brief  expression  are  crowded  all  the  elements  of 
spiritual  ruin.  It  is  the  epitaph  of  the  buried  soul.  It 
tells  of  the  wreck  of  Christian  principle,  of  the  inner 
man  where  sin  may  stalk  as  in  a  wilderness,  of  the  last 
hold  on  virtue  gone.  The  old  fable  that  let  loose  corrup- 
tion and  wo  and  sin  upon  the  creatures  of  earth,  did 
shrewdly  confine  hope  within  the  casket,  lest  it  should  go 
forth  to  breathe  its  pure  spirit  over  corruption,  and  turn 
the  bad  to  good.  In  a  firm,  good  Christian  hope,  sin 
27 


314  EVILS    OF    NEGLECTING    DUTY. 

meets  its  strongest  antagonist.  The  man  who  possesses 
it  has  a  confidence  and  assurance  which  will  nerve  his 
arm  and  secure  the  victory.  The  brea.stplate  of  faith  and 
love  is  not  sufficient  without  the  hope  of  salvation  for  a 
helmet.  And  sin  will  rage  nowhere  with  more  despotic 
sway  than  in  that  dark  world,  where  hope  never  comes 
with  its  cheering,  animating  ray,  with  its  pure  and  eleva- 
ting impulses. 

Now  the  Christian  who  neglects  his  duty  must  be  con- 
stantly depriving  himself  of  this  great  moral  auxiliary. 
His  energies  will  gradually  sink  down  in  discouragement. 
Sensible  of  his  spiritual  deficiencies,  he  is  cheered  by  no 
such  prospect  of  heaven  as  will  make  his  soul  indepen- 
dent of  the  pleasures  of  sin.  Deprived  of  the  sources 
of  happiness  in  the  Chistian  life,  he  falls  back  upon  the 
world  for  comfort  and  joy.  He  will  not  walk  in  the  ave- 
nue of  Christian  duty  to  the  fountain  of  living  water,  and 
he  must  seek  refreshment  at  broken  cisterns.  Moreover 
his  faith  becomes  dim  and  weak.  He  only  that  doeth  the 
will  of  Heaven  "  shall  know  of  the  doctrine."  And  the 
negligent,  disobedient  Christian  is  harassed  by  a  thousand 
doubts  and  fears  with  regard  to  the  character  and  govern- 
ment of  God,  and  becomes  confused  as  to  the  rules  of 
moral  action  and  the  distinction  between  right  and  wrong, 
and  these  depressions  and  doubts  will  make  him  puerile 
and  powerless  in  his  efforts  against  sin.  He  has  no  de- 
lightful consciousness  of  the  favor  of  God,  no  sense  of 
union  with  Jesus,  no  dependence  on  the  aid  of  the  Holy 
Spirit.  He  is  not  restrained  by  that  most  charming  yet 
powerful  influence,  the  smile  of  a  complacent  Father. 
He  has  wandered  from  the  sphere  of  those  heavenly  at- 
tractions, he  has  broken  the  bonds  which  bound  him  to 
God.  His  soul  is  dark  and  solitary.  He  looks  to  the 
church,  but  instead  of  being  encouraged  by  its  fraternal 
sympathies,  it   frowns  on   him  as  an  unworthy,  inefficient 


EVILS    OF    NEGLECTING   DUTY.  315 

member.  Under  these  combined  influences  he  loses  his 
self-respect,  and  when  he  has  lost  that  priceless  treasure, 
the  last  barrier  is  swept  away,  and  he  becomes  the  sport 
of  every  tempter.  Oh  !  how  forlorn,  how  shelterless  is 
the  condition  of  him  who  is  not  only  shut  out  from  the 
hope  of  heaven,  from  the  light  of  faith,  from  the  sense  of 
God's  favor,  from  the  sympathies  of  the  church  ;  but  who 
is  deserted  by  himself,  who  becomes  the  object  of  his  own 
despairing  contempt.  And  how  often  that  church-mem- 
ber who  wakes  up  to  the  consciousness  that  he  is  faithless 
to  God  and  to  man,  and  disgracing  his  profession  by  a 
barren  and  fruitless  life — how  often  does  such  a  one  be- 
come the  victim  of  his  desperate  self-loathing  ;  sometimes 
to  sink  down  imbecile  and  decrepid,  and  suffer  every  pass- 
ing wheel  to  crush  him,  sometimes  to  be  urged  on  by 
hopeless  forebodings  to  a  course  of  sin.  He  has  no  con- 
sciousness of  inward  strength  to  sustain  him  in  his  trials. 
When  temptation  assails  him,  it  is  with  a  weak  and  trem- 
bling hand  that  he  resists,  and  with  a  pale  face  which  tells 
that  he  expects  to  be  conquered,  that  he  will  be  conquered. 
He  finds  an  enemy  within  from  whom  he  flees  in  terror  ; 
from  whose  dark,  gloomy  visions  there  is  no  refuge  but 
that  sin  which  drowns  all  other  cares.  Oh  !  brethren, 
shun  this  alarming  state.  Brace  yourselves  to  the  most 
self-denying  activity  in  the  service  of  your  Redeemer. 
Bring  your  pleasures,  your  property,  your  talents,  your  all 
to  the  altar  of  sacrifice,  rather  than  become  liable  to  be 
haunted  by  such  a  sense  of  your  own  weakness  and  worth- 
lessness  as  shall  cramp  every  exertion,  as  shall  chain  you 
with  worse  than  iron  to  your  lusts,  as  shall  ever  prey  upon 
your  moral  nature. 

V.  A  condition  of  idleness  will   peculiarly  expose  reli- 
gious men  to  the  attacks  of  the  adversary. 

He  comes  to  them,  not  only  when  they  are  depressed 
and  discouraged,  and  too  diffident  of  their  own  strength 


316  EVILS    OF    NEGLECTING    DUTY. 

to  resist  with  force,  but  he  comes  when  the  hands  are  un- 
occupied with  spiritual  and  holy  labors,  when  the  moral 
system  has  sunk  down  into  lassitude,  and  he  there  finds 
ample  range  for  his  arts.  It  is  a  principle  applying  to  all 
departments  of  action,  that  the  want  of  employment  will 
not  only  weaken  the  powers  by  depriving  them  of  exer- 
cise, but  will  drive  the  soul  for  relief  and  excitement  into 
some  mischievous  sphere  of  labor.  The  man  that  has  no 
business  to  occupy  his  mind,  and  no  cares  to  employ  his 
time,  you  will  find  to  be  the  man  whose  soul  is  invaded 
by  impure  imaginings — whose  tongue  is  laden  with  slan- 
der against  his  neighbor.  And  it  is  pre-eminently  true  of 
our  spiritual  life.  There  is  deep  philosophy  in  the  simple 
moral  which  we  learned  in  childhood,  that 

"  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 
For  idle  hands  to  do." 

Not  that  the  Christian  is  never  assailed  by  his  great 
adversary,  in  the  height  of  his  spiritual  activity  ;  for  in 
the  most  laborious  services  for  God,  there  may  be  the 
suggestions  of  pride,  and  unholy  motives  to  overpower 
him.  But  that  is  the  devil's  hardest  work,  to  enter  the 
sanctuary  of  an  active  soul,  and  corrupt  its  impulses  and 
purposes,  and  make  its  sacrifices  like  the  unbeaten  oil  or 
the  strange  fire  of  the  sanctuary.  Chiefly  does  he  tri- 
umph, when  he  comes  upon  one  who  is  asleep  at  his  post, 
and  into  whose  ear  he  may  whisper  his  hellish  sugges- 
tions, whose  hands  are  engaged  in  no  spiritual  exercises, 
but  are  all  ready  for  his  service.  Such  is  the  empty  and 
garnished  house  into  which  the  unclean  spirit  enters,  and 
finds  an  easy  abode.  Oh!  brethren,  avoid  this  spiritual 
idleness.  Let  not  its  dreamy  lassitude  steal  away  your 
energies.  Slumber  not  in  the  lap  of  this  wanton  who 
can  bind  you  with  cords  that  you  cannot  break  when 
the  Philistines  are  upon  you.     Remember  who  lieth  at 


EVILS  OF  NEGLECTING  DUTY.  317 

the  door,  watching  with  eagle  eye  your  moments  of 
repose,  and  ready  to  spring  upon  you  in  your  slumbers. 
Whatsoever  your  hands  find  to  do,  do  it  unto  the  Lord, 
for  if  you  do  it  not  unto  the  Lord,  you  must  do  it  unto 
your  great  enemy.  You  are  so  constituted  that  you  must 
act,  that  you  must  work.  •*  Choose  ye  this  day  whom  ye 
will  serve." 

VL  The  negligent  and  inactive  Christian  is  in  danger 
of  being  deserted  by  the  Holy  Spirit. 

Those  familiar  exhortations  not  to  grieve  and  not  to 
quench  the  Spirit  of  God,  although  of  late  appropriated 
to  another  use,  originally  had  reference  to  Christians, 
They  teach  that  this  divine  influence  does  not  forcibly 
retain  possession  of  the  human  heart ;  but  if  it  find  there 
no  fellowship  of  holy  action  it  will  leave  it  as  an  uncon- 
genial sphere.  The  true  disciple  indeed  is  an  object  of 
Heaven's  peculiar  favor,  and  upon  him  is  set  the  seal  of 
that  covenant  which  can  never  be  broken.  But  he  is 
sanctified  and  saved  only  in  harmony  with  his  own  exer- 
tions. It  is  the  Spirit  which  imparts  efficiency  to  his 
strength,  but  if  he  do  not  exert  that  strength,  the  Spirit 
will  withdraw  his  aid.  *'  Work  out  your  own  salvation," 
said  the  Apostle  to  one  of  the  churches  of  his  care, 
**  work  out  your  own  salvation  with  fear  and  trembling, 
for  it  is  God  that  worketh  in  you."  And  he  might  have 
added,  if  you  do  not  work  yourselves,  God  will  not  be 
working  in  you.  He  disdains  to  abide  in  a  stupid  soul, 
He  prefers  rather  to  be  the  life  of  those  that  live.  And 
if  there  be  one  condition  of  unwonted  melancholy,  it  is 
that  of  the  Christian,  who  by  negligence  has  forfeited  his 
title  to  this  heavenly  aid.  Thus  deserted  and  left  alone, 
what  can  he  do  in  the  midst  of  worldly  influences,  with 
a  sin-craving  nature  pressing  him  to  the  earth,  and  the 
adversary  seeking  for  his  overthrow.  Whither  shall  he 
flee  for  a  refuge  from  those  sins,  that  cry  out  within  big 
37* 


318  EVILS  OF  NEGLECTING  DUTY. 

prayerless  soul  and  demand  their  victim.  And,  my 
brethren,  such  may  be  your  condition,  if  you  live  uncon- 
scious of  your  high  calling,  and  neglectful  of  the  claim 
of  duty.  If  you  will  not  use  the  means  of  grace,  grace 
will  not  retain  possession  of  your  souls.  The  righteous 
retribution,  the  terrible  chastisement  of  your  sloth  shall 
be,  that  you  will  be  left  to  contend  with  your  spiritual 
adversaries  alone.  And  in  that  solitary,  unaided  conflict, 
while  you  wrestle  with  principalities  and  powers,  and 
have  no  divine  arm  on  which  to  lean,  most  forbidding 
shall  be  your  overthrow.  The  church  of  God  shall  weep 
over  the  wound  you  inflict  upon  your  Saviour,  over  the 
disgrace  you  bring  upon  his  blessed  cause,  over  the  long 
dark  sinful  night  in  which  you  shall  enshroud  your  own 
spirit. 

There  are  two  important  inferences  suggested  by  this 
subject,  with  which  the  discourse  will  be  closed. 

First,  It  is  of  great  importance  that  Christians  should 
carry  their  religion  into  all  that  they  do. 

There  is  a  general  impression  among  us,  that  religion 
has  very  little  to  do  with  the  world.  We  have  days  of 
the  week  and  hours  of  the  day,  appropriated  to  sacred 
duties,  and  then  we  go  forth  to  our  secular  work  as  if 
God  had  no  further  claim  upon  us.  Our  religion  is  like 
a  garment,  which  we  leave  behind  us  in  the  closet,  when 
we  go  out  to  mingle  in  the  busy  walks  of  men.  We 
forget  that  more  than  any  where  else,  we  need  its  chas- 
tening, sanctifying  spirit  amid  the  corruptions  of  active 
life,  It  is  the  expansive  nature  of  our  religion  to  demand 
and  to  receive  the  services  of  the  shop  and  the  study,  as 
well  as  the  closet  and  the  church.  There  is  no  secular 
profession  so  high  or  so  low,  that  it  may  not  be  compre- 
hended within  the  sphere  of  Christian  duty  ;  and  that 
disciple  who  imbibes  the  spirit  of  Christ,  will  have  a 
delightful  consciousness  that  he  is  fulfilling  his  office  by 


EVILS  OF  NEGLECTING  DUTY.  319 

industrious  and  sedulous  devotion  to  the  business  of  his 
calling,  by  ever  keeping  in  view  his  great  taskmaster,  by 
accounting  his  labors  and  his  gains  an  offering  to  the 
Lord.  With  what  significance  is  the  warning  of  our  text 
presented  to  us  in  all  the  work  of  our  hands  or  our 
minds,  in  all  our  dealings  with  men,  *'  If  thou  doest  not 
well,  sin  lieth  at  the  door."  The  moment  we  let  down 
the  standard  of  Christian  action,  the  moment  we  mingle 
with  the  world  as  those  impelled  by  no  higher  and  holier 
purposes,  the  moment  we  perform  our  duties  with  no 
thought  of  their  relation  to  God,  that  moment  we  are 
exposed  to  fall.  The  love  of  gain,  an  unholy  ambition,  a 
malignant  selfishness  that  tramples  under  foot  the  rights 
of  our  neighbor,  or  some  other  of  the  passions  that  lie  in 
wait  for  the  defenceless  citadel,  may  come  in  and  usurp 
our  best  affections,  and  drive  religion  from  its  throne. 
And  when  we  see  a  Christian  brother,  faithful  to  the 
strictly  religious  duties  of  his  profession,  yet  in  his 
worldly  life  exposed  to  suspicion,  and  becoming  a 
laughing-stock  of  the  profane,  we  may  learn  whither  to 
trace  the  difficulty.  He  has  not  suffered  his  whole  life  to 
be  pervaded  with  the  spirit  of  Jesus.  He  lays  down  his 
Christian  armor,  at  the  very  moment  he  needs  it  to  repel 
the  onset  of  worldliness.  In  the  fellowship  of  the  saints, 
at  the  altar  of  worship,  in  the  service  of  the  church,  his 
offerings  may  be  sincere  and  abundant,  but  in  the  great 
business  of  his  life  he  is  not  acting  for  God.  He  is 
doing,  but  not  doing  well ;  and  that  is  the  door  at  which 
sin  may  enter,  and  corrupt  the  unconsecrated  purposes, 
and  inflame  the  unguarded  passions,  and  press  its  way 
through  the  soul,  till  it  has  poisoned  every  pious  pleasure, 
and  turned  the  whole  life  into  a  career  of  wretchedness 
and  guilt. 

Finally,  Our  subject  teaches  us,  that  the  true  remedy 
for  inconsistent,  wandering  Christians,  is   an  immediate 


(uiri7ERsr 


320  EVILS    OF    NEGLECTING    DUTY. 

and  active  engagedness  in  all  the  duties  of  religion.  "  If 
thou  doest  not  well,  sin  lieth  at  the  door,"  and  it  is 
equally  true,  if  the  monster  have  possession  of  thy  soul, 
the  only  way  to  drive  him  from  thee  is  by  engaging  in 
those  duties  of  which  he  shuns  the  sight.  Abashed 
by  the  presence  of  what  is  holy,  and  feeling  "  how  awful 
goodness  is,"  he  will  shrink  away  and  trouble  thee  no 
more. 

Do  I  speak  to  any  member  of  this  church,  whose  soul 
is  full  of  darkness  and  doubt,  whose  spiritual  progress  has 
been,  of  late,  like  a  groping  upon  the  mountains,  whose 
feet  often  stumble  as  the  enemy  presses  hard  upon  him, 
and  all  the  arrows  pierce  his  flesh — Oh  !  my  brother, 
Christ  sends  to  you  a  message  of  comfort  and  light,  "  Go 
work  to-day  in  my  vineyard."  Christian,  go  forth  to  that 
work  with  a  manly  heart.  Erect  once  more  the  long- 
prostrate  altar  of  devotion  and  sacrifice  within  you.  Put 
your  shoulder  to  the  wheel  of  Christ's  chariot.  Give 
your  energies  to  the  church.  Labor  for  souls  as  one  that 
must  give  account.  Make  your  whole  existence  a  path- 
way of  burning  zeal.  So  shall  you  be  strong.  So  shall 
sin  cease  to  have  dominion  over  you.  So  shall  the 
Master  come  and  say,  "  Well  done,  good  and  faithful 
servant,"  thou  hast  been  faithful  unto  me,  and  now  I 
will  put  beneath  thy  feet  the  powers  with  which  thou 
didst  wrestle  so  sorely.  Yea,  beloved,  we  are  more  than 
conquerors,  when  Jesus  lives  and  acts  within  us,  in  the 
energy  of  a  devoted  Christian  life. 


SERMON  X, 


THE  CULTIVATION  OF  THE  SOCIAL  VIRTUES  NO 
PROOF  OF  HOLINESS. 


AND  ANOTHER  OF  HIS  DISCIPLES  SAID  UNTO  HIM,  LOUD,  SUFFER  ME  FIRST 
TO  GO  AND  BURY  MY  FATHER.  BUT  JESUS  SAID  UNTO  HIM,  FOLLOW 
ME  ;    AND  LET  THE  DEAD  BURY  THEIR  DEAD. — Matt.  8  :  21,  22. 

This  is  one  of  the  hard  sayings  of  Jesus.  An  early 
and  obscure  tradition  explains  away  its  difficulties  in  a 
manner  at  once  satisfactory  and  beautiful.  The  individ- 
ual addressed  in  the  text  is  supposed  to  be  the  amiable 
and  affectionate  John.  He  belonged  to  a  family,  you  will 
remember,  singularly  fond  in  their  attachment  to  each 
other.  It  was  his  mother  who  traveled  a  great  distance, 
that  she  might  tender  to  Jesus  the  request  so  replete  with 
maternal  ambition,  *^  Let  my  two  sons  sit,  the  one  on  thy 
right  hand,  and  the  other  on  thy  left,  in  thy  kingdom." 
The  whole  history  of  this  disciple  shows  how  great  must 
have  been  the  ardor  of  his  social  affections,  and  they  no 
doubt  at  first  constituted  the  chief  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
his  self-devotion  to  God.  Now  it  was  the  custom  of  our 
Saviour  to  adapt  his  instructions  to  the  besetting  sins  of 
those  whom  he  addressed.  To  one  who  made  wealth  his 
idol,  he  would  issue  the  mandate,  Go  and  sell,  and  give 
to  the  poor  ;  touching  each   man  in  the  most  sensitive 


322  THE    SOCIAL    VIRTUES     NOT    HOLY. 

part  of  his  nature,  that  he  might  the  more  clearly  disclose 
the  true  state  of  his  heart.  And  so  he  comes  to  the 
disciple  mentioned  in  our  text,  as  to  one  loving  his 
earthly  friends  with  an  affection  bordering  on  idolatry, 
and  he  determines  to  make  manifest  the  defectiveness  of 
his  character.  Not  that  he  would  have  checked  the  flow 
of  filial  affection  ;  not  that  he  wished  to  prohibit  or  did 
prohibit  the  obsequies  of  a  deceased  parent ;  but  he 
meant  by  the  sharpness  and  severity  of  his  rebuke  to 
convey  more  clearly  the  great  truth,  that  what  was  lovely 
and  amiable  and  affectionate  was  not  to  be  preferred  to 
what  was  religious  ;  neither  could  it  be  acceptable  unless 
deeply  imbued  with  a  religious  spirit. 

The  text  naturally  leads  us  to  one  of  the  hard  points  in 
our  evangelical  faith.  It  has  been  often  said  that  the 
doctrine  of  our  entire  sinfulness  does  violence  to  our 
social  sensibilities  ;  that  it  fails  to  recognize  those  moral 
graces  which  give  a  charm  and  beauty  to  life ;  that  it 
demands  of  the  mother  a  judgment  respecting  a  dutiful 
child  against  which  all  her  better  feelings  revolt.  It 
cannot  be  denied,  that  language  unduly  harsh  and  unau- 
thorized by  Scripture  has  been  sometimes  employed  upon 
this  subject.  The  truth  is,  religion,  while  she  assumes 
the  posture  of  reproof,  beholds  in  our  prostrate,  fallen 
nature,  the  ruins  of  much  that  is  goodly,  and  she  comes 
to  many  of  our  constitutional  susceptibilities  with  a 
friendly  mien,  not  indeed  as  themselves  involving  holi- 
ness, but  as  being  the  avenues  through  which  holiness 
may  enter  and  take  possession  of  the  soul.  That  is  a 
cold  and  unfeeling  theology  which  places  the  social  vir- 
tues on  a  level  in  all  respects  with  the  instincts  of  brutes. 
That  is  a  harsh  and  crabbed  analysis  which  can  coolly 
resolve  the  finer  sentiments  of  our  nature  into  mere 
selfishness.  Such  theories  can  breathe  only  where  they 
are  born,  in  the  close  air  of  the  metaphysician's  study ; 


THE  SOCIAL  VIRTUES  NOT  HOLY.         323 

for  under  the  clear  sky,  and  amid  the  gladsome  walks  of 
life,  they  must  seem  more  like  caricatures  than  true  por- 
traits of  humanity. 

I  intend  in  subsequent  discourses,*  to  show  the  true 
connection  subsisting  between  our  religion  and  the  social 
virtues.  I  shall  endeavor  to  vindicate  religion  from  the 
charge  of  having  no  fellowship  with  human  nature,  and 
at  the  same  time  to  fix  the  reproofs  of  the  gospel  with 
increased  severity  upon  the  amiable  sinner.  This  morn- 
ing, I  shall  attempt  to  prove. 

That  the  cultivation  of  the  social  virtues  is  no  proof  of 
a  right  state  of  heart. 

I.  It  may  be  said  in  support  of  this  proposition,  that 
one  who  cultivates  these  social  virtues  may  be  neglecting 
the  most  important  sympathies  of  his  moral  nature. 

I  think  it  will  be  readily  admitted  that  a  man  cannot 
be  called  good,  if  he  leaves  an  essential  part  of  that 
moral  nature  which  God  has  given  him  to  run  to  waste. 
In  a  certain  class  of  duties,  he  may  be  admirably  correct 
and  exemplary,  but  he  is  at  best  but  half  a  man.  Now 
the  doctrine  that  asserts  our  depravity,  as  I  understand  it, 
simply  asserts  a  fact,  that  men  are  destitute  of  a  love  for 
God  as  the  ruling  principle  of  life,  and  are  governed  by 
other  principles  which  ought  to  be  restrained.  It  does 
not  assume  its  seat,  as  many  have  supposed,  at  a  distance 
from  human  sympathies,  frowning  upon  every  exercise  of 
the  natural  man  as  hideous  and  unclean.  It  recognizes 
a  beauty  in  the  social  virtues  ;  but  in  the  very  acknowledg- 
ment of  that  beauty,  it  is  the  more  firmly  fixed  in  its 
condemnation  of  human  character,  because  it  thus  learns, 
that  there   are   susceptibilities  in  the  heart  unexercised  ; 


*  These  discourses  the  author  did  not  live  to  finish.  The  thanks- 
giving sermon  immediately  following  this  forms  a  part  of  the 
contemplated  course. — Ed. 


324  THE    SOCIAL     VIRTUES    NOT    HOLY. 

depths  of  affection  which  have  not  been  reached.  It 
stands  by  the  bedside  where  affection  watches  and  weeps, 
and  knows  no  fatigue ;  it  goes  to  the  hovel  where  charity 
is  dispensing  her  bounties,  and  wiping  the  tears  of  the 
mourner  ;  it  witnesses  the  flushed  cheek  when  deeds  of 
noble,  self-denying,  disinterested  virtue  are  recited  ;  and 
it  comes  away  from  these  scenes  with  the  full  assurance 
that  man  has  an  affectionate  nature  ;  that  within  his  bosom 
there  is  a  conscience  which  has  survived  the  fall,  dispos- 
ing him  to  recognize  and  to  love  the  right,  and  to  hate 
and  avoid  the  wrong.  It  is  a  gross  misrepresentation  of 
our  belief  when  we  are  charged  with  looking  upon  men 
as  blind  and  base,  and  with  groveling  tastes  that  cannot 
appreciate  what  is  truly  excellent.  No,  my  friends,  if 
such  were  the  conviction  of  men,  God  would  view  them 
as  objects  of  pity  rather  than  of  reproof.  But  he  has 
created  them  with  a  more  exalted  nature,  and  the  fault  is, 
that  they  devote  that  nature  to  all  pursuits  and  affections 
rather  than  the  highest.  And  they  who  can  love  so  well 
an  earthly  friend,  and  appreciate  so  readily  an  earthly 
obligation,  and  discharge  so  faithfully  an  earthly  duty, 
have  no  thought  or  care  for  the  higher,  the  holier,  the 
heavenly.  Let  us  see  how  religion  appeals  to  the  very 
susceptibilities  which  are  exercised  in  the  course  of  a 
virtuous  life,  that  we  may  strip  the  moral  sinner  of  every 
refuge,  and  expose  the  odiousness  and  the  wilfulness  of 
his  depravity. 

First,  What  could  be  more  in  accordance  with  our 
nature  than  love  for  God  as  our  Father.  Filial  affection 
is  one  of  the  noblest  elements  of  our  being.  There  is 
no  sight  which  awakens  warmer  pleasure  than  that  of  a 
child  who  cherishes  in  his  heart  the  sense  of  obligation 
to  his  parent,  who  remembers  the  tenderness  that  watched 
over  him  in  infancy,  who  forgets  not  the  hand  that  has 
guided   him   through  the  changing  scenes  of  life,  soften- 


THE    SOCIAL    VIRTUES    NOT    HOLY.  325 

ing  the  rough  path  for  his  footsteps,  and  affording  shelter 
from  the  storm  beneath  the  shadow  of  its  own  care. 
Beautiful  indeed  does  filial  love  become,  when  it  is  sum- 
moned from  that  passive  quietness  into  the  path  of  labo- 
rious, self-denying,  painful  effort  to  repay  the  debt;  when 
it  devotes  itself  assiduously  to  the  gratification  of  a  pa- 
rent's will,  and  needs  but  a  glance  of  the  father's  eye  ere 
it  go  forth  submissively  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ;  when  it 
shares  its  last  farthing  with  aged  poverty,  or  watches  by 
the  bedside  of  helpless  decrepitude,  and  rejoicingly 
stretches  out  its  arm  for  that  second  childhood  to  lean 
upon.  But  what  shall  be  said  of  him  who  exhibits  this 
untiring  devotion  to  an  earthly  parent,  while  he  bestows^ 
no  thought  upon  a  heavenly  1  Has  not  God  a  similar, 
and  even  a  greater  claim  upon  the  affections  ?  Is  there 
not  that  in  the  thought  of  his  creating  and  preserving, 
goodness,  above  all  of  the  spiritual  tenderness  which  he 
manifests  for  the  children  of  his  care,  which  is  fitted  to 
speak  to  the  deepest  emotions  of  the  filial  heart,  and  send 
it  forth  in  the  pathway  of  childlike,  and  if  need  be,  self- 
crucifying  obedience  ?  Should  we  not  address  one  who 
could  feel  no  such  promptings,  in  the  language  of  aston- 
ishment and  reproof?  Should  we  not  say  to  him  in  the 
words  of  a  foreign  preacher,  "  Brother,  a  voice  from  God 
rings  in  thine  ears,  My  child,  why  hast  thou  not  sought 
me  1  Yea,  from  infancy  up — first  when  thou  wast  sitting 
in  thy  mother's  embrace,  while  she  told  thee  the  story  of 
the  dear  Redeemer ;  and  then  in  thy  boyhood,  when  in 
starry  nights  thou  gazedst  on  the  grandeur  of  thy  heav- 
enly Father's  mansions,  and  thine  eyes  shed  drops  of 
thankfulness,  that  among  all  his  millions  of  worlds,  he 
forgot  not  thee,  poor  child  ;  and  then  in  thy  youth,  when 
sin  conflicted  sorely  with  thee,  and  thou  learnedst  the 
truth,  '  He  that  trusteth  in  his  own  heart  is  a  fool,'  every- 
where and  all  the  way  has  thy  Father's  voice  cried  out  to 
28 


THE    SOCIAL     VIRTUES    NOT    HOLY. 

thee — wherefore  seekest  thou  me  not,  my  straying  child, 
for  I  am  still  thy  Father.  Oh  !  ye  who  hang  with  all  the 
fibres  of  your  system  upon  a  creature  of  God,  and  long 
after  that  creature,  have  you  ever  longed  in  the  same  way 
after  your  Creator  ?  Why  do  you  not  learn  what  is  the 
blessedness  of  the  faithful  one,  when  his  inmost  soul  lies 
spread  out  in  holy  prayer  before  God;  when  the  eye  lin- 
gers upon  the  distant,  deep,  clear  heaven,  the  fairest  em- 
blem of  the  boundlessness,  the  serenity  and  the  magnifi- 
cence of  that  love  which  first  loved  us — when  his  ear 
takes  in  no  earthly  sound,  and  only  this  solitary  feeling 
lives  in  his  soul.  Oh  !  thou  eternal  one,  Thou  art." 

I  know  that  against  this  affectionate,  all-absorbing  com- 
munion with  our  Heavenly  Parent,  it  may  be  urged,  that 
it  is  unnatural  for  the  creature  to  aspire  to  intimacy  with 
the  Creator  ;  that  it  is  hard  for  the  visible  to  commune 
with  and  to  love  the  invisible.  But,  my  friends,  how  is  it 
with  you  in  your  earthly  affections?  Do  you  feel  no 
emotions  of  love  awakened  by  the  virtues  of  those  you 
have  never  seen  ?  Does  not  the  soul  fix  fondly  upon 
many  an  object  that  may  be  distant  from  its  vision  ?  Do 
we  not  love  and  commune  with  the  dead  ?  Does  the  filial 
principle  depend  upon  something  palpable  and  material 
for  its  nutriment  and  exercise  ?  How  often  does  the  or- 
phan boy  deprived  in  infancy  of  his  parents,  before  he 
had  learned  to  discern  their  visage,  or  to  feel  the  warm 
breath  of  their  love,  still  cherish  them  in  his  heart,  bear 
about  their  image  through  life,  behold  their  eyes  ever 
gazing,  and  their  hands  ever  pointing  out  the  way  in 
which  he  should  walk.  And  similar  to  this  is  the  com- 
munion demanded  of  the  soul  with  God.  Mysterious,  yet 
not  more  mysterious  than  the  dead,  to  each  heart  he 
speaks  through  the  ten  thousand  voices  of  the  outward 
world,  and  from  within  through  the  clear  tones  of  con- 
science, and  the  soft  music  of  the  filial  feeling ;  and  his 


THE    SOCIAL    VIRTUES     NOT    HOLY.  327 

demand  is  for  the  memory  and  the  love  and  the  duty 
which  the  child  owes  to  his  parent.  And  when  he  finds 
that  these  varied  appeals  are  all  slighted,  with  what  justice 
does  he  cry  out  against  the  vile  ingratitude,  "  Hear,  O 
heavens,  and  give  ear,  O  earth, — I  have  nourished  and 
brought  up  children,  and  they  have  rebelled  against  me." 
Secondly,  There  is  another  and  a  beautiful  class  of 
emotions  to  which  the  character  and  person  of  Christ 
makes  its  appeal.  He  speaks  to  that  fraternal  love  which 
we  cherish  towards  those  who  were  nurtured  by  the  same 
hand,  who  look  up  into  the  face  of  the  same  parents,  who 
share  each  other's  joys  and  sorrows,  and  bear  each  other's 
burdens  through  life.  There  is  a  sense  in  which  all  man- 
kind are  our  brethren,  and  it  is  possible  for  any  one  to 
become  the  object  of  this  fraternal  feeling.  If  a  fellow 
man  seems  to  fix  on  me  his  eye  with  a  peculiarly  fond  ex- 
pression, I  am  so  constituted  that  I  almost  instinctively 
give  back  the  affectionate  glance.  If  he  seems  to  love 
my  society,  it  is  my  first  dictate  to  reciprocate  his  friend- 
ship. If  I  find  that  he  often  sacrifices  his  own  happiness 
for  my  good,  a  sense  of  obligation  is  joined  to  my  recip- 
rocated sympathy.  If  he  daily  comes  to  me  with  counsels 
of  wisdom  and  comfort,  and  his  words  are  like  apples  of 
gold  in  pictures  of  silver,  he  becomes  to  me  as  a  brother. 
If  I  perceive  that  his  moral  graces  grow  lovelier  as  I  be- 
come intimate  with  him,  and  his  character  daily  assumes 
a  dignity  and  grandeur  surpassing  all  that  I  had  seen  be- 
fore, he  is  to  me  more  than  a  brother.  I  press  him  to  my 
heart  as  meeting  the  highest  demand  of  my  moral  nature, 
as  him  whom  my  soul  loveth.  Now  Christ  comes  to  us 
in  just  such  a  way.  He  appeals  to  our  sympathy  as  he 
first  loves  us.  He  appeals  to  our  gratitude,  as  for  our 
sakes  he  descends  from  the  peace  of  heaven,  and  strug- 
gles and  dies  amid  the  discord  of  earth.  He  is  as  a 
brother  ever  speaking  to  us   by  the  pure,  refreshing  les- 


328  THE    SOCIAL    VIRTUES     NOT    HOLY. 

sons  of  his  instructions  and  his  life.  He  stands  out  before 
us  as  the  personation  of  that  moral  purity  and  loftiness 
for  which  we  search  elsewhere  in  vain.  Oh  !  if  there  be 
a  Character  that  speaks  to  our  condition,  that  has  a  right 
to  demand  the  warm  flow  of  a  brother's  love,  it  is  the  Re- 
deemer of  man.  He  lived  and  he  died  not  merely  to 
atone  for  our  sins,  but  to  afford  us  an  object  of  fraternal 
affection  which  should  harmonize  with  all  the  higher 
sympathies  of  our  nature,  and  should  satisfy  every  longing 
of  the  soul.  How  the  heart  clinors  to  it  as  a  refuore  in  af- 
fliction,  and  in  the  storm  of  sin  and  sorrow,  listens  to 
his  cheering  voice,  and  in  the  darkness  of  disease  or  old 
age  can  discern  his  image,  when  other  objects  of  affec- 
tion have  faded  from  the  view.  So  felt  that  aged  servant 
of  God  with  whom  the  sun  and  stars  of  memory  had  been 
darkened,  and  all  the  daughters  of  music  had  been 
brought  low.  When  it  was  attempted  to  recall  his  con- 
sciousness by  the  sound  of  his  own  name,  he  replied,  I 
know  not  the  man.  When  mention  was  made  of  the 
idols  of  his  early  affections,  they  too  had  all  been  erased 
by  the  hand  of  age,  and  the  old  man  strained  the  eyes  of 
his  memory  in  vain,  for  he  could  not  recall  its  lost  treas- 
ures. But  some  one  spoke  of  the  Redeemer  of  man,  and 
his  dimmed  eye  lighted  up  with  new  animation,  and  there 
was  eloquence  in  his  trembling  voice  as  he  said,  *'  I  re- 
member that  Saviour  ;  yes,  I  do  remember  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ."  But  for  you,  my  friend,  in  the  vigor  of  all  your 
powers,  with  affections  that  you  prove  your  ability  to 
cherish  and  exercise  for  others — this  precious  Redeemer, 
though  he  comes  as  a  brother,  though  he  plead  long  with 
you,  though  he  offer  you  the  choicest  of  his  treasures,  yet 
you  will  not  give  him  back  a  brother's  heart.  Can  you 
blame  us  that  we  call  such  singular  and  astonishing  cold- 
ness, depravity. 

Thirdly,  there  is  yet  another  principle  in  man,  to  which 


THE    SOCIAL    VIRTUES     NOT    HOLY.  329 

religion  makes  its  appeal.  It  is  the  philanthropic  princi- 
ple. It  is  founded  on  that  natural  sympathy  which  man 
feels  for  his  fellow  man,  which  prompts  him  to  relieve  his 
suffering,  and  often  to  endure  great  sacrifices  to  benefit 
his  condition.  We  sometimes  see  in  an  unregenerate 
man  this  natural  benevolence,  displayed  with  wonderful 
beauty.  The  feelings  which  prompt  it  are  not  to  be  de- 
spised, and  the  results  of  its  action  are  among  the  choicest 
treasures  in  this  world  of  ours.  But  go  to  such  a  man, 
and  appeal  to  his  benevolent  sympathies  in  a  religious 
way.  Talk  to  him  of  the  interests  of  the  immortal  soul. 
Try  to  impress  upon  his  mind  the  importance  of  laboring 
for  the  spiritual  as  well  as  temporal  good  of  his  fellow  be- 
ings. Point  out  to  him  the  great  evil  of  his  example  as 
irreligious,  and  hold  up  before  him  the  promise  of  en- 
larging his  sphere  of  usefulness  and  making  his  labors 
work  for  eternity.  Tell  him  all  this,  and  how  will  he 
treat  you  1  With  coldness  and  stupidity.  He  is  a  kind 
neighbor,  ready  to  pluck  out  his  eye  to  save  a  fellow 
creature  from  suffering,  but  yet,  when  you  bring  to  his 
heart  this  noblest  object  of  philanthropy,  the  relief  of  the 
soul  from  sin  and  wo,  it  awakens  no  cordial  response. 
Oh  !  is  there  not  something  in  the  heart  of  mar>,  kiad  and 
tender  though  it  be, — is  there  not  a  perverse  will  which 
lifts  itself  up  proudly  and  obstinately  against  the  claims 
of  religion  ;  and  though  the  appeal  be  to  a  susceptibility 
which  is  active  in  every  other  relation,  it  is  in  the  highest 
of  all  relations  dull  and  heedless  and  dead. 

I  think  it  will  be  obvious  from  these  remarks,  that  the 
social  virtues,  instead  of  proving  the  absence  of  depravity 
in  the  natural  man,  only  serve  to  fix  the  charge  of  guilt 
more  deeply  upon  him.  They  show  that  he  is  capable  of 
feeling  and  of  doing  all  that  religion  requires,  but  yet  he 
refuses  to  love  and  to  obey.  Though  religion  makes  its 
appeal  to  him  as  a  man,  though  it  speaks  to  him  as  a  son, 
28* 


330  THE    SOCIAL    VIRTUES     NOT    HOLY. 

as  a  brother,  as  a  philanthropist ;  though  its  claim  is  sim- 
ply for  a  new  and  loftier  and  more  appropriate  exercise  of 
susceptibilities  which  he  possesses  and  knows  how  to  di- 
rect, yet  he  stands  aloof  from  the  winning  voice,  and  will 
not  yield  himself  to  the  delightful  service.  His  virtues 
are  amiable  and  lovely,  but  they  might  all  subsist  in  an 
atheist's  bosom,  they  might  flourish  in  an  atheist's  world. 
There  is  no  God  in  all  his  thoughts  or  affections  or  pur- 
poses. This  is  the  depth  of  his  depravity.  This  is  the 
odiousness  of  his  sin. 

The  proposition  of  this  discourse  may  be  established 
1>y  another  train  of  remark. 

II.  The  exclusive  cultivation  of  these  social  affections 
involves  the  sin  of  idolatry. 

The  gift  is  permitted  to  draw  the  affections  from  the 
giver.  God's  command  is  that  we  should  love  him  with 
all  the  heart,  and  there  is  a  response  in  our  moral  nature 
to  the  fitness  of  this  demand.  The  character  and  law  of 
God  are  suited  to  attract  those  very  affections  which  we 
expend  on  the  creature.  Still  more,  they  have  a  far  high- 
er claim  upon  our  hearts  than  the  objects  which  in  reality 
engross  them.  Now,  can  there  be  idolatry  more  flagrant 
than  this  ?  God  unveils  his  beauty  and  loveliness  to  the 
eye  of  the  soul,  but  the  soul  replies,  My  affections  are 
pre-occupied ;  I  prefer  and  I  cling  to  the  creature.  These 
«arthly  treasures  are  my  gods,  and  I  will  not  have  the 
Supreme  to  reign  over  me.  Impenitent  parent,  are  you 
not  conscious  of  your  criminality  in  this  matter  ?  In 
neglecting  your  Heavenly  Father,  do  you  not  erect  in 
your  heart  an  altar  for  your  child,  and  do  you  not  offer 
there  the  sacrifices  you  owe  to  God  ?  And  when  he  sum- 
mons you  to  your  final  account,  how  will  you  extenuate 
the  guilt  incurred,  in  defiling  this  sanctuary  of  your  soul, 
by  a  homage  and  a  worship  so  misdirected  ? 

There  is  another  light  in  which   this  exclusive,  idol  a- 


THE    SOCIAL    VIRTUES     NOT    HOLY.  331 

trous  devotion  to  the  creature  may  be  viewed.  It  mars 
that  moral  symmetry  which  we  love  to  see  in  human  cul- 
ture, and  creates  a  monstrous  disproportion  in  the  charac- 
ter. Suppose  a  father  were  to  concentrate  his  affections 
on  a  single  child.  On  that  one  he  should  seem  to  dote 
with  a  fondness  equalled  only  by  the  cold  indifference 
with  which  he  regarded  all  the  others.  On  him  he  should 
lavish  every  kindness,  and  heap  every  luxury,  while  the 
rest  of  the  famished  flock  should  crave  in  vain  for  the 
crumbs  from  the  favored  one's  table.  By  what  name 
should  we  call  that  father  ?  Amiable  as  might  seem  to 
be  the  origin  of  this  monomania,  delightful  as  might  be 
the  sight  of  a  fond  attachment  between  child  and  parent, 
we  should  call  this  exclusive  and  solitary  appropriation  of 
love,  a  monstrous  anomaly.  Make  the  case  a  still  stronger 
one,  and  you  have  a  faint  image  of  the  relation  sustained 
by  the  amiable  sinner  to  God.  Suppose  the  object  of  this 
parent's  idolatry  to  be  the  one  least  worthy,  in  all  the 
family,  of  his  confidence  and  affection,  while  they  whom 
he  passes  by  with  neglect  and  indifference  are  the  patterns 
of  all  that  is  dutiful  and  exemplary.  Indulgent  parent, 
affectionate  son,  kind-hearted  brother,  this  is  the  way  in 
which  you  treat  God.  He  has  bound  himself  to  you  by 
ties  closer  and  more  enduring  than  the  ties  of  earth. 
He  is  worthy  of  being  loved  with  an  affection  that  shall 
absorb  your  soul,  and  give  direction  to  all  subordinate 
loves.  And  yet  you,  infatuated  in  your  idolatry,  exhaust 
your  nature  in  devotion  to  man,  till  there  is  left  not  one 
breathing  of  fondness  for  God.  Is  not  this  an  odious, 
criminal  partiality  ?  Is  it  not  a  hideous  disproportion  ? 
Is  it  not  a  depraved  idolatry  ? 

III.  These  social  affections  may  be  the  means  of  in- 
flaming the  natural  heart  with  hatred  against  God. 

Every  sinner  has  in  his  heart  the  elements  of  this  ha- 
tred.    Perhaps  his  circumstances  have  not   been  such  as 


332  THE    SOCIAL    VIRTUES     NOT    HOLY. 

to  call  them  forth  into  a  violent  outbreak,  and  he  is  not 
fully  conscious  of  present  enmity  to  his  Maker.  But  God 
has  so  ordered  it  that  few  persons  can  go  through  life 
without  meeting  with  something  to  draw  out  this  latent 
principle,  and  lay  bare  to  their  own  view  the  unreconciled 
state  of  their  affections.  Now  there  is  no  more  sensitive 
spot,  which  God  can  touch,  than  these  very  social  feelings, 
and  he  wounds  them  most  keenly  when  he  comes  sudden- 
ly and  mysteriously,  and  tears  from  the  very  bosom  of 
affection  the  object  to  which  it  has  been  clinging  as  its 
life  and  joy.  The  mother  that  goes  nightly  to  the  cradle, 
and  watches  the  unconscious  smile  of  her  sleeping  babe, 
and  dreams  that  nothing  can  be  so  fair  and  so  good  and 
so  secure  from  harm,  is  sometimes  called  to  watch  the 
gathering  flush  upon  the  cheek,  to  see  those  little  hands 
clenched  in  spasmodic  agony,  to  bend  over  the  lingering 
sufferer  in  the  tediousness  of  a  long  disease,  till  at  length 
maternal  care  can  be  of  no  more  avail,  and  her  last  duty 
is  to  wipe  the  cold  sweat  from  the  forehead  that  was  so 
fair,  and  dispose  the  white  garments  for  the  burial.  The 
father  has  a  son,  mature  and  manly,  over  whom  he  has 
watched  from  infancy  with  unwonted  fondness,  on  whom 
he  has  lavished  every  expenditure,  to  whom  he  has  looked 
forward  as  the  representative  of  his  own  family  and  name, 
and  the  comfort  of  his  old  age.  He  finds  his  graces  of 
mind  and  heart  maturing  with  a  beautiful  harmony,  and 
begins  already  to  lean  on  him  as  his  strong  staff  and  his 
beautiful  rod.  But  suddenly  a  deplorable  disaster  pros- 
trates his  hopes.  The  blow  that  strikes  down  the  darling 
of  his  pride  is  worse  than  death ;  it  dooms  him  to  a  per- 
petual sight  of  that  most  awful  of  spectacles — a  diseased 
and  shattered  intellect.  He  beholds  the  glare  of  idiocy, 
where  was  once  the  sprightliness  of  youth  ;  and  the  staff 
on  which  he  leaned  has  become  a  broken  reed.  Now 
here  are   afflictions  which  may  occur  at   any  time  to  the 


THE  SOCIAL  VIRTUES  NOT  HOLY.         333 

most  prosperous,  and  if  the  heart  have  not  been  educated 
to  complacency  in  view  of  the  hidden  depths  of  God's 
character,  what  will  it  do  in  an  hour  of  such  deep  desola- 
tion. Here  are  events  of  which  there  is  no  adequate  ex- 
planation, except  that  God  has  caused  them  ;  and  as  reli- 
gion is  needed  at  such  an  hour,  not  to  produce  a  stoical 
indifference,  but  a  calm  trust  in  the  mysterious  Provi- 
dence, so  such  an  hour  tests  the  character  of  the  soul  and 
proves  its  wickedness  if  religion  be  not  there.  OH  !  my 
friends,  we  live  in  a  fearful  world.  Many  of  us  go  through 
life  with  a  small  share  of  sorrow,  but  there  is  not  one  of 
us  that  may  not  be  wounded  in  the  very  part  of  our  nature 
where  all  our  energies  and  affections  would  combine  in 
the  agonizing  prayer,  "Good  Lord,  spare  thy  people  !" 
And  how  desolate  is  the  heart  that  has  no  refuge  to  which 
to  betake  itself  but  its  own  bleeding  sensibilities  ;  which 
has  no  pious  promptings  which  cause  it  to  look  up  with  a 
smile  of  faith  to  him  who  administers  the  chastening. 
My  brethren,  how  much  better  is  the  love  to  which  the 
gospel  calls  us,  than  the  love  we  find  implanted  in  our 
social  nature.  This,  devoted  to  objects  which  must  fade; 
that,  fixed  on  objects  which  are  unfading  and  eternal. 
This,  sustained  amid  a  thousand  fears  and  doubts  which 
increase  with  its  fondness  ;  that,  built  on  a  faith  in  the 
promises  of  God  which  no  storms  and  danger  can  shake. 
This,  often  crushed  and  bleeding  and  desolate,  with  its 
idols  all  torn  away,  with  its  most  fine  gold  become  dim ; 
that,  a  perpetual  fountain  of  delight,  flowing  more  serenely 
and  beautifully  amid  the  sorrows  of  earth,  like  the  river 
of  God  sending  its  streams  through  the  valley  of  death. 

And  now,  I  appeal  to  you,  man  of  the  affectionate  na- 
ture, whether  you  do  not  this  day  stand  condemned  before 
God.  Do  you  not  see  the  depravity  of  your  heart  more 
clearly  in  those  very  affections  which  you  possess  and  ex- 
ercise for  the  world,  but  do  not,  will  not  devote  to  higher 


334  THE    SOCIAL    VIRTUES     NOT    HOLY. 

objects.  Can  you  give  any  reason  for  feeling  no  love  to 
God,  and  to  Christ,  and  to  souls,  except  that  you  are  a  sin- 
ful being?  Have  you  not  cultivated  your  moral  nature 
with  a  disproportionate,  idolatrous  devotion  to  the  crea- 
ture? Are  you  prepared  to  meet  the  divine  administration 
with  complacency  and  calmness,  if  it  demands  of  your 
social  nature  its  most  costly  sacrifice  ?  Are  you  not  an 
enemy  of  God,  entirely  destitute  of  that  governing  prin- 
ciple of  piety,  which  is  all  that  can  give  elevation  and  ho- 
liness to  your  soul?  Yet  to  such  as  you,  though  she 
comes  in  the  language  of  reproof — to  such  as  you,  religion 
appeals  with  sisterly  tenderness.  Unto  men  is  her  call. 
Unto  the  sons  of  men  is  her  voice.  And  the  demand  is, 
that  you  become  subjects  of  an  affection  higher  than 
earthly,  and  live  and  act  and  love  like  sons  of  God  as  well 
as  sons  of  men. 


NOTE. 

This  sermon  was  preached  at  Danvers,  Mass.  ;  never  to  his  o-vvn 
people. 


SERMON  XI 


THE     CONNECTION    BETWEEN    CHRISTIANITY    AND 
THE  SOCIAL  AFFECTIONS.- (A  Thanksgiving  Sermon.) 


WHEN  JESUS  THEREFORE  SAW  HIS  MOTHER,  AND  THE  DISCIPLE 
STANDING  BY  WHOM  HE  LOVED,  HE  SAITH  UNTO  HIS  MOTHER,  WO- 
MAN, BEHOLD  THY  SON  !  THEN  SAITH  HE  TO  THE  DISCIPLE,  BE- 
HOLD  THY  mother!      and   FROM   THAT   HOUR  THAT  DISCIPLE  TOOK 

HER  INTO  HIS  OWN  HOUSE. — John  19  :  26,  27. 

It  is  said,  that  the  celebrated  Dr.  Johnson  once  read  a 
manuscript  copy  of  the  book  of  Ruth  to  a  fashionable 
circle  in  London.  The  universal  exclamation  of  the 
company  was,  "  where  did  you  get  that  exquisite  pastoral," 
and  the  thoughtless  were  directed  to  the  book,  which  to 
them  had  been  associated  only  with  gloom  and  dullness. 
It  is  in  truth  remarkable,  that  among  a  people  whose  do- 
mestic institutions  and  exclusive  habits  seemed  so  unfa- 
vorable to  social  refinement,  the  Old  Testament  history 
should  abound  in  such  delicate  narratives  of  the  affec- 
tions. The  ancient  classics  are  notoriously  deficient  in 
the  sentiments  of  the  fireside,  but  the  more  ancient  lite- 
rature of  the  Bible,  even  in  the  primitive  traditions  of  pa- 
triarchal life,  seems  to  have  held  the  family  relation 
among  its  choicest  subjects.  In  the  whole  range  of  east- 
ern story,  1  know  of  nothing  more  rich  than  the  account 


A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON. 

of  Isaac's  courtship.  The  witching  pages  of  fiction  have 
never  yet  surpassed  the  true  narrative  of  Joseph  and  his 
brethren.  And  the  sweetest  refinement  which  modern 
taste  has  thrown  around  the  grave,  is  unequal  to  the  simple 
pathos  of  old  Jacob,  in  his  dying  request:  "  Bury  me  with 
my  fathers,  in  the  cave  that  is  in  the  field  of  Ephron  the 
Hittite  :  There  they  buried  Abraham  and  Sarah  his  wife  ; 
there  they  buried  Isaac  and  Rebecca  his  wife  ;  and 
there  I  buried  Leah." 

Yet  it  was  left  for  the  genius  of  Christianity  to  con- 
summate the  work  of  refinement.  Indeed  the  whole 
career  of  Jesus  seems  to  speak  the  language  of  a  delight- 
ful harmony  with  the  social  feelings  of  our  nature.  In 
this  respect,  as  in  all  others,  his  life  stands  forth  as  a 
pattern  for  mankind  to  admire  and  imitate.  His  filial 
relation  in  the  office  of  mediator,  and  that  spirit  of 
devout  and  affectionate  submission  with  which  he  always 
addresses  the  Father,  seem  in  this  respect  to  have  a 
peculiar  significance.  The  fact  that  his  miracles  are 
almost  all  directed  to  the  happiness  of  social  life,  gives 
the  assurance  that  Christianity  was  designed  to  shed  its 
light  about  the  domestic  fireside,  and  to  be  in  turn 
refreshed  by  its  gladdening  glow.  It  was  the  sacred 
institution  of  marriage,  which  Jesus  honored  by  his  first 
miracle.  Throughout  his  whole  career  of  benevolence, 
he  seemed  to  take  peculiar  delight  in  healing  the  wounds 
of  disappointed  affection,  meeting  desolate  widowhood  as 
she  was  following  out  to  his  burial  the  last  solace  of  her 
life,  and  giving  back  the  young  man  to  his  mother  ; 
pressing  his  way  through  the  mourning  minstrels  around 
the  death-bed,  and  waking  the  pale  maiden  from  her 
sleep;  healing  the  tortures  that  were  worse  than  death, 
and  restoring  to  health  and  reason  and  friendship  those 
that  had  been  a  burden  and  a  shame.  Nor  can  we  forget 
his   attachment   to  the  little  circle  at  Bethany,  where  he 


A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON.  337 

used  to  take  his  Sabbath  evening  meal,  and  whither  he 
hurried  with  such  fraternal  sympathy  to  weep  over  the 
buried  love  of  the  sisters,  and  call  back  its  object  to  life. 
The  remarkable  attachment  of  females  to  his  person, 
seems  to  declare  the  same  truth  concerning  his  social 
character.  When  Chateaubriand  was  asked,  why  the 
women  of  the  Jewish  race  were  so  much  handsomer  than 
the  men ;  why,  with  their  thick  eye-brows  and  long  eye- 
lashes to  distinguish  them,  they  had  escaped  the  expres- 
sion of  narrowness  and  malignity,  which  like  the  mark  of 
Cain  was  fixed  upon  their  husbands  ;  what  there  was  in 
the  female,  that  popular  literature  should  strive  to  adorn 
and  beautify  and  exalt  in  proportion  as  it  cast  odium  and 
contempt  upon  the  male, — it  was  his  pleasant  but  fiinciful 
reply,  that  the  reflection  of  some  beautiful  ray  from 
Christianity  had  rested  on  the  brow  of  the  Jewesses, 
because  they  had  not  shared  in  the  persecution  of  its 
great  Author.  The  remark  was  founded  on  truth,  for  the^ 
women  of  Judea  were  the  firmest  friends  of  Jesus.  It 
was  they  who  anointed  him  for  his  burial.  Not  a  female 
voice  mingled  in  the  shouts  which  followed  him  to  Cal- 
vary, not  a  woman  joined  in  the  fearful  imprecation, 
which  fixed  his  blood  upon  the  race.  They  gathered 
with  streaming  eyes  about  his  cross,  when  the  ardent  and 
bold  and  manly  had  forsaken  him.  They  were  earliest 
at  his  sepulchre,  to  engage  in  the  last  conflict  with 
corruption.  And  now  the  incident  of  our  text  shines 
with  conspicuous  beauty  in  the  same  array  of  evidence. 
Hanging  upon  the  cross — in  the  first  freshness  of  his 
pain,  his  eye  singles  out  one  among  the  weeping  group, 
the  mother  who  bare  him. 

"  A  son  that  never  did  amiss, 
That  never  shamed  his  mother's  kiss, 

Nor  crossed  her  fondest  prayer  ; 
Even  from  the  tree  he  deigned  to  bow 
For  her  his  agonized  brow. 

Her  his  sole  earthly  care." 

29 


338  A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON. 

To  whom  should  he  intrust  her  ?  Who  would  be  most 
faithful  in  this  tender  connection  ?  Who  would  best 
watch  over  her  desolate  old  age,  and  stretch  out  his  arm 
for  her  second  childhood  to  lean  upon  ?  If  Peter  had 
been  here,  within  sight  of  the  sufferer,  he  would  have 
spoken  out  in  the  forwardness  of  his  generosity,  and 
with  indiscriminate  readiness  have  invited  her  to  share 
the  pittance  of  his  poverty.  But  Peter  was  characterized 
by  boldness  and  zeal,  rather  than  a  calm,  constant,  fire- 
side affection.  Who  but  the  "beloved  disciple"  himself 
was  qualified  to  be  the  adopted  son  of  such  a  mother  ? 
The  most  amiable,  the  most  refined,  the  most  competent 
of  them  all,  and  the  only  one  that  was  constant  in  this 
hour  of  trial  and  suffering.  "  Son,  look  upon  thy  mother, 
— and  from  that  hour,  the  disciple  took  her  unto  his  own 
house.'* 

In  pursuing  the  train  of  thought  to  which  we  are  thus 
led,  on  the  connection  between  Christianity  and  the  social 
affections, 

I.  I  remark  that  the  social  affections  will  almost  invari- 
ably be  found  to  exist  in  their  most  cultivated  state,  under 
the  influence  of  Christianity. 

This  might  be  expected  from  that  distinctive  and  funda- 
mental principle  of  our  religion  first  clearly  taught  by 
our  Saviour,  *'  Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself" 
Christianity  teaches  man  to  love  his  brother,  to  regard  his 
interests,  to  seek  his  good,  and  it  teaches  this  great  lesson 
with  a  clearness  and  earnestness  such  as  is  found  in  no 
other  moral  system.  Now  there  is  no  principle  to  which 
society  in  all  its  varied  operations  is  more  indebted  than 
this.  It  is  the  grand  stimulus  of  its  progress.  Wherever 
religion  has  had  a  fair  trial,  and  has  lived  in  its  purity,  it 
has  indicated  its  own  social  character,  not  only  strength- 
ening and  beautifying  the  ties  of  nature,  and  gathering 
kindred  and  friends  under  its  grateful  shade,  but  widening 


A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON.  339 

its  arms  to  receive  all  men  as  brethren,  and  enrich  all 
men  from  the  same  fountains  of  happiness,  and  gather  ail 
men  in  holy  union  around  the  same  great  altar  of  sacri- 
fice. 

An  attentive  survey  of  the  history  of  the  world,  cannot 
fail  to  lead  to  the  same  result  with  regard  to  the  social  in- 
fluence of  Christianity.  Go  back  to  the  remote  ages  of 
antiquity,  before  the  light  of  our  religion  had  dawned 
upon  the  world.  Many  a  bright  spot  shall  you  find  in  the 
moral  waste.  Many  a  city  where  art  has  lavished  her 
most  gorgeous  treasures,  and  learning  has  reared  her 
proudest  seats.  You  shall  find  there  the  taste  of  the  ar- 
chitect, in  marble  columns,  gracefully  carved  cornices, 
and  majestic  temples  that  rear  themselves  towering  and 
queenlike.  You  shall  find  there  the  skill  of  the  sculptor, 
in  the  accurately  chiseled  proportions  of  that  chief  earthly 
beauty,  the  human  form.  You  shall  enter  suburban 
groves,  and  listen  to  philosophy  in  her  most  inspired  les- 
sons, and  poetry  in  her  most  winning  strains.  You  shall 
be  surrounded  by  every  thing  outward  that  speaks  of  ele- 
vation and  refinement.  But  when  you  penetrate  the 
secrets  of  domestic  life,  when  you  look  for  the  happiness 
of  a  pure  and  holy  fireside,  the  light  that  is  in  them  has 
become  darkness — and  "how  great  is  that  darkness!" 
You  recur  to  those  whited  sepulchres  which  are  beautiful 
without,  but  within  are  full  of  loathsomeness  and  corrup- 
tion. And  while  you  glory  in  the  achievements  of  hu- 
man taste  and  genius,  you  weep  that  they  can  attain  so 
little,  when  unaided  by  the  gospel  of  Christ. 

Follow  the  influence  of  Christianity  during  the  ages 
since  its  origin,  and  you  will  find  the  nature  of  the  case 
materially  changed,  yet  leading  to  the  same  result.  Now 
religion  and  refinement  seem  to  go  hand  in  hand.  All 
that  is  splendid  in  art  becomes  consecrated  to,  or  is  conse- 
crated by  the  spirit  of  the  gospel.     Painting  and  sculpture 


nm 


A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON. 


expend  their  choicest  workmanship  on  the  subjects  of  the 
Bible,  and  the  mosaic  pavement,  and  the  arched  galleries, 
and  the  frescoed  ceiling  become  vocal  with  the  praises  of 
God.  And  it  seems  as  if  the  social  refinement  of  Chris- 
tianity attracted  to  its  own  service  the  genius  and  taste  of 
man,  as  eminently  harmonious  with  its  spirit.  Wherever 
it  pressed  its  way,  though  among  the  hordes  of  barbarism, 
it  invariably  carried  with  it  more  or  less  of  the  blessings 
of  cultivated  life.  And  wherever  tribes  and  nations  that 
for  a  time  have  lived  under  its  power,  were  left  to  relapse 
into  their  old  heathenism,  or  gave  way  to  the  forced  estab- 
lishment of  a  hostile  faith,  it  has  been  generally  noticed, 
that  barbarism  and  social  debasement  have  come  in,  and 
stalked  over  the  ruins  of  Christianity  with  the  breath  of 
a  moral  pestilence. 

Perhaps  the  most  obvious  influence  of  Christianity,  is 
seen  in  the  elevation  of  the  female  sex.  In  the  ordinary 
developments  of  heathenism,  the  condition  of  woman  has 
been  degraded  ;  and  even  in  the  more  refined  and  polished 
regions  of  antiquity,  she  occupied  but  a  secondary,  and 
that  no  honorable  position  in  society.  Christianity  alone 
has  adjusted  with  propriety  the  relative  position  of  the 
sexes,  and  has  first  raised  love  from  an  instinct  to  a  senti- 
ment. It  is  the  spirit  of  woman  that  gives  now  an  un- 
wonted charm  to  our  popular  literature,  and  while  under 
a  darker  religious  atmosphere  the  prevailing  element  may 
have  been  some  vindictive  passion,  or  the  spell  of  dark 
and  fiercely  brooding  destiny,  the  theme  that  now  attracts 
all  hearts  is  a  refined  sentiment  of  affection. 

II.  This  leads  me  to  remark,  that  religion  acknowl- 
edges the  auxiliary  moral  influence  of  the  social  affec- 
tions. 

It  is  a  fact  which  you  cannot  have  failed  to  notice,  that 

heism  levels  its  first  blow  at  the  family  relation.  And 
it  is  a  proof  most  striking  and  impressive,  of  the  connec- 


A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON.  341 

tion  subsisting  between  the  feelings  cherished  around  the 
fireside  of  home,  and  those  enjoined  by  our  most  holy 
faith.  The  ruthless  hand  that  would  blot  out  the  thought 
of  God,  would  turn  society  into  a  wilderness,  so  dark  and 
damp  that  religious  promptings  cannot  live  in  its  un- 
wholesome atmosphere.  Its  first  step  is  to  tear  down  the 
domestic  altar,  to  erase  the  hallowed  associations  of 
childhood,  to  banish  from  the  spirit  the  influence  of  its 
better  affections,  and  to  shut  out  every  moral  restraint 
that  lifts  a  warning  voice  from  the  family  circle.  And 
when  irreligion  goes  to  assume  its  throne,  it  has  to  go 
over  the  ruins  of  all  that  is  dear  and  lovely  in  the  human 
bosom,  amid  the  groans  of  forgotten  mothers,  and  the 
tears  of  outcast  children  ;  and  its  throne  is  in  a  desert  of 
human  sympathies,  and  the  subjects  of  its  sway  are  no 
longer  men  but  brutes. 

I  am  aware  that  Christianity,  from  a  perversion  of  its 
own  principles,  or  from  an  undue  heed  to  the  suggestions 
of  a  heathenish  expediency,  has  exposed  itself  to  reproach 
in  this  matter.  There  was  a  time  when  religion  seemed 
to  turn  its  back  upon  the  refined  and  delicate  relations  of 
social  life,  instead  of  addressing  them  with  a  voice  of  fel- 
lowship. What  the  church  once  fostered  and  encouraged 
and  ever  enjoined  on  the  most  devoted  of  her  children, 
was  a  stern  seclusion  from  what  were  deemed  the  intoxi- 
cating seductions  of  social  life.  But  she  found  from  bitter 
experience,  not  only  what  she  had  lost  in  refusing  to  take 
those  refining  influences  by  the  hand,  but  what  she  had 
terribly  gained  in  the  immorality  and  corruption  and  dis- 
proportion of  a  forced  celibacy.  Now-a-.days,  blessed  be 
God,  religion  professes  little  fellowship  with  a  cloistered 
monkery  that  retires  from  the  cheering  faces  of  men  and 
women,  and  broods  over  its  own  gloomy  pietism.  The 
place  where  it  loves  to  dwell  is  the  fireside  of  home,  and 
the  sounds  it  loves  to  hear  are  the  greetings  of  friendship 
29* 


342  A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON. 

and  the  gladsome  voices  of  children,  and  the  atmosphere 
in  which  it  flourishes  and  rejoices,  is  that  which  has  been 
purified  and  consecrated  by  the  warm  breathings  of  affec- 
tion. 

Religion  may  sometimes  avail  itself  of  this  moral  power 
of  the  domestic  attachments,  when  no  other  influence  can 
be  of  advantage.  It  may  be,  and  has  been  found  a  most 
effectual  means  of  grace.  When  the  wanderer  has  strayed 
beyond  the  reach  of  every  other  influence,  and  the  ordi- 
nary moral  restraints  have  lost  their  power  over  him,  there 
is  a  pathos  with  which  those  finer  chords  of  feeling  may 
sometimes  be  touched,  when  the  sacred  burial-places  of 
his  social  memory  are  made  to  give  up  their  dead.  There 
rush  back  upon  him  all  the  scenes  of  his  childhood,  with 
its  hallowed  associations,  and  he  traces  with  an  appalling 
distinctness  his  progress  from  step  to  step  towards  ruin. 
A  feeling  of  tenderness  often  steals  over  him  almost  un- 
consciously, as  he  thinks  of  the  crushed  hopes  and  broken 
heart  of  a  father,  or  beholds  the  swimming  eye  of  a 
mother,  as  it  fixed  on  him  its  last  earthly  gaze  of  reproof, 
or  now  looks  down  from  heaven.  And  there  may  be 
power  in  these  reminiscences,  fastening  themselves  upon 
his  soul,  following  him  to  his  haunts  of  sin,  and  giving 
him  no  peace,  till  in  the  brokenness  of  his  spirit  he  ex- 
claim, I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father.  We  instinctively 
acknowledge  the  same  moral  indebtedness,  when  we  hear 
that  a  man  of  dissolute,  hardened  character  has  entered 
upon  some  new  relation  in  social  life,  by  invariably  asking 
if  the  rough  features  of  his  nature  are  not  softened,  if  he 
may  not  be  redeemed  by  the  sacred  voice  from  ruin. 

I  know  there  is  a  common  religious  feeling  which 
seems  to  imply  that  our  affections  are  a  hinderance  to  piety. 
There  are  some  good  Christians,  who  in  the  hour  of  be- 
reavement are  fond  of  finding  fault  with  themselves,  and 
think  they  are  deservedly  punished  for  the  excessive  love 


A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON.  343 

they  have  lavished  on  a  creature  of  God.  But,  my  friends, 
we  do  wrong  when  we  pretend  to  judge  of  the  purposes 
and  intention  of  our  Maker  ;  yet  if  our  inquisitive  minds 
will  prompt  us  to  conjecture  of  a  hidden  providence,  let 
us  beware  how  we  represent  it  as  frowning  upon  our 
earthly  love.  Let  us  remember  that  the  demand  of  reli- 
gion is,  not  that  we  should  love  our  friends  less,  but  our 
God  more.  Let  us  seek  first  of  all,  that  high  and  holy 
devotion  to  our  Maker,  and  instead  of  checking  or  sub- 
duing it,  it  will  give  new  strength  and  ardor  to  our  social 
nature,  and  impart  a  loftiness  and  purity  which  it  did  not 
possess  before. 

IIL  This  leads  me  to  remark,  that  religion  adds  the 
spiritual  to  the  natural  affection. 

It  enjoins  a  love  for  the  soul,  a  tender  interest  in  the 
eternal  welfare  of  the  objects  of  our  attachment.  You 
cannot  have  failed  to  notice,  what  a  sympathy  almost 
always  subsists  between  a  fondly  cherished  attachment 
and  the  exercise  of  prayer.  If  the  individual  has  been 
prayerless  before,  and  possesses  a  heart  as  yet  unfashioned 
by  the  power  of  holiness,  there  is  yet  something  mysteri- 
ous in  those  affections  which  draws  him  up  to  God,  in 
ardent  though  unacceptable  worship.  He  seeks  some 
retired  place  where  he  may  go  and  pour  out  his  soul  for 
the  welfare  of  those  who  are  dear  to  him.  His  desires 
rise  above  earthly  protection,  to  the  ministering  of  angels 
and  the  overshadowing  of  heavenly  wings.  In  his  sepa- 
rations his  prayer  is  that  of  Mizpah,  "  The  Lord  watch 
between  me  and  thee,  while  we  are  absent  one  from 
another."  Now  this  is  only  the  uprising  of  natural 
religion  in  the  heart ;  it  is  a  higher  development  of  those 
affectionate  sympathies  which  in  themselves  have  no 
holiness  ;  but  it  shows  what  devotional  elements  there 
are  in  our  being,  of  which  the  religious  man  may  avail 
himself,  and  how  naturally  he  who  looks  upon  the  friends 


344  A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON. 

of  his  heart  as  immortal  beings,  may  be  stimulated  to 
labor  and  pray  for  their  salvation.  God  has  not  left  such 
a  sphere  of  Christian  activity  without  the  seal  of  his 
approval.  The  affection  that  fixes  its  eye  upon  some 
beloved  wanderer,  and  watches  over  his  erring  footsteps, 
prays  with  a  faith  that  cannot  fail,  and  beckons  and 
beseeches  with  a  love  that  knows  no  end  ; — such  an 
affection  shall  not  lose  its  reward.  It  may  go  forth  to  its 
work  with  tears,  but  it  shall  return  amid  the  shouting  of 
summer  fruits. 

Every  religious  family  is  bound  to  its  members  by  just 
such  religious  ties,  and  bears  within  itself  the  elements 
of  this  spiritual  influence.  Oh  !  if  there  be  a  spot  on 
earth,  on  which  God  looks  down  with  pleasure,  it  is  the 
altar  of  family  prayer.  Precious  incense  is  that  which 
goes  up,  each  morning  and  each  evening,  from  the  sanc- 
tuary of  affectionate  hearts.  Humble  may  be  the  scene 
of  gathering,  and  lowly  the  voice  of  petition,  but  there  is 
a  sacred  light  encircling  the  group,  and  a  solemn  elo- 
quence investing  those  words  of  common  penitence  and 
of  common  gratitude—the  few  kneeling  together  with 
hearts  that  throb  with  one  affection  for  each  other,  and 
one  desire  towards  God.  Changes  may  come  over  that 
family  circle.  They  may  be  changes  from  joy  to  sorrow, 
or  from  sorrow  to  joy.  Poverty  may  strip  the  old  mansion 
of  its  costly  adornments,  or  fortune  may  turn  the  cottage 
into  a  palace,  and  the  smiling  faces  that  once  beamed 
among  them  may  give  place  to  the  memory  of  the  absent 
and  dead  ;  but  that  ancient  Bible,  and  those  words  of 
prayer,  and  the  spot  where  old  and  young  used  to  kneel 
together,  shall  all  linger  in  the  mind,  gathering  richness 
and  beauty  in  the  lapse  of  years,  and  giving  to  the  eye 
of  age  a  picture  which  shall  never  lose  its  greenness  or 
its  grace. 

IV.  I  remark,  that  religion  teaches  us  to  cherish  our 


A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON.  345 

earthly  attachments  in  the  hope  that  they  will  be  perpetu- 
ated in  heaven. 

It  is  the  chief  glory  of  Christianity,  that  it  brings  to 
light  life  and  immortality  beyond  the  grave.  It  is  the 
chief  power  of  religion  that  it  presses  the  soul  onward 
and  upward  to  feed  upon  this  great  hope.  It  teaches  how 
unsubstantial  and  transitory  are  earthly  idols,  and  it  fixes 
the  eye  on  objects  that  are  heavenly  and  enduring. 
When  the  fibres  of  the  soul  are  woven  around  the  beings 
who  reciprocate  its  love,  its  prompting  is  that  they  be 
nurtured  for  a  fairer  soil  beyond  the  tomb.  Thither  we 
may  look  amid  the  endearments  of  earth,  and  hope  for  a 
higher  and  more  blissful  consummation  in  heaven. 

Here  is  the  crowning  beauty  of  religion,  in  the  social 
character.  The  thought  of  eternity  imparts  a  grandeur 
and  a  depth  to  the  affections  in  their  ordinary  exercise. 
In  the  trials  and  anxieties  of  the  domestic  circle,  the 
thought  of  heaven  will  communicate  serenity  and  calm- 
ness, and  drown  each  gloomy  foreboding.  And  in  those 
dark  hours,  when  the  hearth  becomes  desolate,  and  the 
mourners  go  about  the  streets,  it  is  that  blessed  whisper 
of  the  gospel,  "  we  shall  go  to  them,  but  they  shall  not 
return  to  us,"  which  assuages  the  bitterness  of  grief,  and 
confirms  the  shattered  faith,  and  inspires  the  heart  with 
new  and  holy  purposes. 

It  is  in  its  connection  with  the  influence  and  memory  of 
the  dead,  that  religion  accomplishes  what  nothing  else 
can  achieve.  I  know  there  is  a  philosophy  at  such  an 
hour  which  whispers  its  cold  lessons  to  the  bereaved,  but 
they  are  truths  which  prop  up,  but  cannot  warm  the  sink- 
ing spirit.  They  have  no  power  to  draw  life  from  the 
bitter  herb.  They  do  but  strive  to  stay  the  first  gush  of 
agony,  and  when  the  wounds  are  healed  up,  they  leave 
the  spirit  forgetful  of  the  high  moral  lessons  it  has  re- 
ceived, and   with   no  purification   from   the   fire  through 


346  A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON. 

which  it  has  been  called  to  pass.  The  precept  inculcated 
by  this  superficial  sentimentalism  is,  **  Look  not  mourn- 
fully on  the  past,"  rather  than,  **  Look  joyfully  upon  the 
future  and  be  strong  in  hope  of  heaven."  But  not  so  is  it 
with  religion.  It  speaks  to  us  from  the  vacant  chair  by 
the  fireside,  and  the  departed  one  seems  again  to  occupy 
it,  and  we  are  all  together  once  more  around  our  old 
familiar  hearth.  It  speaks  to  us  in  the  well  remembered 
scenes  which  we  used  to  traverse  not  alone,  and  our  old 
companions  seem  once  more  to  be  walking  with  us,  and 
cheering  us  by  their  counsel.  It  speaks  to  us  from  their 
silent  dwelling  in  the  churchyard ;  and  its  voice  proclaims 
that  this  is  not  the  home  of  the  dead,  that  they  live — live 
in  our  hearts,  live  in  our  lives,  live  in  heaven.  Yea,  my 
brethren,  through  life  we  may  be  conscious  of  the 
delightful  communion.  We  know  that  they  live  and  love. 
Ever  they  hover  about  our  pathway.  Ever  they  linger 
about  the  scenes  of  home,  and  touch  as  with  angel-wing 
the  altars  at  which  they  used  to  bow.  And  the  language 
in  which  they  ever  address  us,  is  that  of  solemn  counsel 
to  live  above  the  world,  to  breathe  on  earth  more  of  the 
atmosphere  of  heaven,  consecrated  as  it  is  by  the  presence 
of  God  and  the  blessed  ones  who  die  in  Him,  that  we 
may  come  home,  there  to  live  and  to  love  also.  And,  my 
friends,  is  not  that  religion  worthy  of  being  adopted  into 
our  families,  and  enshrined  in  our  hearts,  and  acknowl- 
edged in  each  scene  of  joyous  festivity,  which  borrows 
such  a  lustre  from  the  fireside,  and  gives  back  in  return 
its  own  most  blessed  sunshine  ; — a  religion  which  can 
draw  such  happiness  and  instruction  from  the  very  sor- 
rows of  earth,  which  can  make  the  dead  still  live  in  our 
circles  with  the  blessedness  of  a  new  life,  which  can  call 
us  all  together  at  last  among  the  families  of  the  blessed, 
to  an  eternal  thanksgiving  in  the  heavens. 

I   have  thought,  my   friends,  that  no  sentiments  could 


A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON.  347 

be  more   appropriate   than   these   upon  this  return  of  our 
annual  festival.     Our  fathers   were   men   who   looked   to 
the  good  of  posterity  in  the  institutions  they  established. 
They  had  secluded  themselves  from  the  blessings  of  their 
native   fireside,  not  that   they  loved  home  less,  but  that 
they  loved  liberty  more.     They   brought  their  household 
gods  with  them  across  the  ocean,  though  they  left  the  old 
altars  behind.     They    wished    to   render    attractive    this 
new  home  in  the   wilderness,  and  they  gathered  about  it 
the   lights  of  Christian   influence.     A   day   set   apart  for 
gratitude  to  God  could  not  fail  to  bring  the  happy  family 
together,  to  renew  their  vows  to  one  another  while  they 
paid  united  tribute  to  their  common  Father.     It  is  fit  that 
the  day  should  be  still  hallowed  as  it  is  by  all  the  precious 
associations  of  home;  that  it  should  bring  back  the  son  to 
his  mother,  the  daughter-in-law  to  her  mother-in-law ;  that 
it  should  gather  old  and  young  around  the  table  of  plenty 
and  the  altar  of  thanksgiving.     Let  us  come,  my  friends, 
thanking  God  that  we  are  Christians  by  birth,  and  deriv- 
ing an   impulse  from   these  scenes,  that  we  may  become 
Christians   in  heart.     Let  us  consecrate  these   hours  to 
remembrances  of  the  absent,  and  set  up  the  vacant  chair 
to  the  table  for  the  distant  ones   who  remember  us  this 
day  in  their  prayers.     If  to  some  of  us  these  associations 
are  crowded  with  sorrow,  and  we  cast  back  our  thoughts 
to  the  light-hearted  and  joyous  who  were  the  life  and  sun- 
shine   of  the  day,  but    whose   light    has    been    put    out 
forever  ;  let  us  mingle  these  sacred   memories   with   our 
joys.     Let  the   forms  of  the  past  come  in  to  cast  their 
chastening  shadow   over  our  present  pleasures.     Let  us 
look   away   to  the   "  fair   flowers  of  our  garland  as  they 
bloom  yonder  lovelier  and  forever." 

"  He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know. 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown ; 
But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 


348  A    THANKSGIVING    SERMON. 

And  yet  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 

Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 

And  into  glory  peep. 

Dear,  beauteous  death  !  the  jewel  of  the  just ! 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark, 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Coidd  man  outlook  that  mark  !  " 


NOTE. 

The  preceding  discourse  furnishes  as  good  an  illustration  as  can 
be  given  of  Mr.  Homer's  social  and  domestic  character.  A  clergy- 
man, who  heard  the  sermon  preached,  and  who  associated  its 
breathing  words  with  what  he  well  knew  to  be  the  spirit  of  its 
author,  wrote  the  following  account  of  the  first  and  the  only 
Thanksgiving  service  which  Mr.  Homer  performed.  •*  The  sermon, 
and  indeed  the  entire  service,  Avas  peculiar  and  very  impressive. 
His  hymns  were  well  selected.  His  prayer  contained  a  recognition 
of  the  hand  of  God  in  planting  the  American  colonies,  in  guarding 
and  in  guiding  them  amid  difficulties  and  dangers  ;  also  a  full 
expression  of  thanks  for  present  blessings.  Several  passages  from 
the  eightieth  Psalm  were  introduced  into  the  pl-^yer  with  singular 
appropriateness.  For  his  scripture,  he  read  the  entire  book  of 
Kuth,  and  with  such  spirit  as  to  render  it  altogether  new  and 
charming.  His  sermon,  though  long,  was  delivered  in  his  happiest 
style,  and  held  the  attention  of  the  congregation  to  the  last  word. 
The  whole  effect  was  most  delightful.  Strangers  present  pro- 
nounced it  an  exquisite  specimen  of  sermonizing.  I  think  that  the 
service,  taken  as  a  whole,  was  one  of  the  most  beautifully  impres- 
sive which  I  ever  attended.  In  contrasting  it  with  my  own 
performances,  I  felt  strongly  inclined  to  give  up  the  clerical  pro- 
fession."— One  of  Mr.  Homer's  most  intelligent  parishioners  was 
asked  whether  the  reading  of  the  whole  book  of  Ruth,  before  the 
Thanksgiving  sermon,  did  not  prove  wearisome  to  the  audience. 
**  It  w^as  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  service,"  was  the  reply. 
"  Mr.  Homer  looked  as  if  he  could  not  help  reading  the  whole,  and 
the  four  chapters  seemed  only  too  short."  The  sermon  was  con- 
cluded with  the  two  final  stanzas  of  Henry  Vaughan's  'Psalm  of 
Death.'  The  Editor  has  taken  the  liberty  to  add  a  third  stanza 
from  the  same  exquisite  poem.  The  reasons  for  the  addition  will 
be  obvious  to  the  critical  reader.  The  sermon  was  never  preached 
except  at  South  Berwick,  Nov.  26,  1840. 


SERMON  XII. 


THE  EXTENT  AND  BROADNESS  OF  THE  DIVINE  LAW. 


I   HAVE   SEEN  AN   END   OF  ALL   PERFECTION  !   BUT  THY   COMMANDMENT 

IS  EXCEEDING  BROAD. — Psalm  119  :  96. 

The  Psalmist  employs  the  word  law  and  its  synonymes 
in  a  most  extended  sense.  In  the  text  he  designs  to  con- 
trast the  whole  religious  system  with  the  vanities  of  life. 
He  had  seen  an  end  to  all  earthly  perfection  ;  as  a  quaint 
divine  expresses  it — "  Goliath  the  strongest  overcome, 
Asahel  the  swiftest  overtaken,  Ahithopel  the  wisest 
befooled,  Absalom  the  fairest  deformed ; "  and  now  with 
delight  he  turns  to  the  fulness  of  religion, — its  doctrines 
so  complete,  its  requirements  so  ample,  its  promises  so 
sure,  its  rewards  so  glorious.  Thy  commandment,  he 
exclaims  with  his  admiring  eye  on  the  vast  and  multiplied 
blessings  of  God's  word,  thy  commandment  is  exceeding 
broad. 

Included,  and  perhaps  prominent  in  the  mind  of  the 
writer,  was  the  idea  which  lies  upon  the  face  of  the  text,, 
the  superiority  of  divine  to  human  law.  In  his  official 
career  as  a  statesman  and  a  monarch,  he  had  seen  an  end 
to  all  perfection  here.  The  code  of  Moses,  divinely  in- 
spired as  it  was,  and  in  its  ampleness  and  wisdom  calling 
for  the  admiration  of  every  child  of  Israel,  was  yet  sub- 
30 


350  EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW. 

jected  to  all  the  limits  and  deficiencies  of  what  was  human 
and  earthly.  In  what  striking  contrast  to  the  tables  of 
stone,  with  all  their  accurate,  minute  and  magnificent  de- 
tail, did  the  law  of  God  stand  forth  in  its  simple  majesty, 
and  its  comprehensiveness.  Let  us  draw  out  this  contrast 
in  the  present  discourse,  and  consider  the  superior  extent 
of  the  divine  law,  and  its  freedom  from  those  limits 
which  check  the  operation  of  human  ordinances. 

It  is  not  my  design  in  the  present  discourse  to  detract 
from  the  honor  and  respect  we  all  owe  to  those  outward 
forms  of  law  under  which  we  live.  They  secure  our 
peace  and  happiness,  and  they  merit  our  gratitude.  They 
are  an  echo  of  the  divine  law,  a  shadowing  forth  through 
earthly  symbols  of  principles  which  are  eternal,  and  they 
deserve  our  homage  and  veneration.  But,  exposed  as  they 
are  to  the  limits  and  imperfections  of  every  thing  earthly 
and  human,  though  as  perfect  as  they  could  be,  we  should 
bear  in  mind  that  they  are  but  an  echo  and  a  shadow. 
We  should  look  away  often,  to  the  great  archetype  in  that 
divine  and  eternal  law,  of  which  it  has  been  so  beautifully 
said,  that  *'  her  seat  is  the  bosom  of  God,  her  voice  the 
harmony  of  the  world  ;  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth  do 
her  homage,  the  very  least  as  feeling  her  care,  and  the 
greatest  as  not  exempt  from  her  power,  though  each  in 
different  form  and  manner,  yet  all  with  uniform  consent 
admiring  her  as  the  mother  of  their  peace  and  joy."  To 
exalt  this  great  original,  rather  than  to  depreciate  the  im- 
perfect copy,  is  my  present  design. 

I.  I  remark  that  the  superior  broadness  of  the  divine 
law  is  manifest,  from  the  fact  that  it  is  designed  and  fitted 
for  the  whole  universe  of  moral  beings.  "  The  com- 
mandment is  exceeding  broad  ; "  because  it  stretches  out 
its  arms  to  gather  the  moral  universe  under  its  sway.  Its 
voice  reaches  every  remote  corner  of  space  where  spirit 
dwells,  and  its  power  is  felt  and  acknowledged  as  far  as 
its  voice  is  heard. 


EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW.  351 

First,  It  can  reach  all  moral  beings. 

Human  law  of  course  issues  its  mandates  for  the  earth 
alone,  and  on  men  alone  can  it  execute  its  penalties.  It 
cannot  ascend  into  heaven,  and  bid  the  angels  obey.  It 
cannot  go  down  into  hell,  and  command  allegiance  from 
the  rebel  host.  It  cannot  travel  through  space,  and  hold 
up  its  glittering  sceptre  over  the  myriads  of  intelligences 
that  people  the  illimitable  domain.  A  proud  monarch 
once  took  his  seat  upon  the  ocean  shore,  and  bade  the  ad- 
vancing tide  go  back,  but  the  billows  heeded  not ;  they 
only  rolled  on,  wave  after  wave,  till  in  mockery  they  kissed 
the  monarch's  feet.  And  if  the  dumb  elements  of  nature 
refuse  obedience  to  an  earthly  mandate,  how  much  more 
shall  the  spirits  of  another  sphere  assert  their  independ- 
ence of  such  a  sway.  To  one  accustomed  to  contemplate 
himself,  and  the  earth  where  he  dwells,  as  but  a  speck  in 
God's  moral  creation,  how  inferior  appears  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  mightiest  empire  which  terminates  with  men  and 
with  earth,  to  the  extended  sway  of  that  government  which 
rules  over  all.  It  is  acknowledged  above  and  below.  It 
is  the  law  of  heaven  and  of  hell.  It  pervades  all  exist- 
ence. Jehovah  himself,  I  say  it  with  reverence,  is  sub- 
ject to  its  standard  and  its  dictates.  And  wherever  in 
the  wide  universe  of  God  conscience  sits,  the  law  is  with 
her,  inseparable  from  her  very  being,  speaking  in  her 
voice,  beaming  in  her  smile,  smiting  with  her  scorpion 
sting. 

But  it  is  not  my  purpose  in  this  part  of  the  discourse, 
to  push  the  contrast  into  such  remote  extremes,  or  to  in- 
sist upon  the  obvious  and  admitted  extension  of  the  divine 
law  into  other  spheres  than  our  own.  I  wish  to  bring  the 
subject  to  a  more  immediate  and  practical  bearing  upon 
ourselves,  and  to  confine  the  comparison  to  the  operation 
of  law  among  human  beings.  The  contrast  will  be  yet 
more  strikinor,  if  we  consider  how  much   wider  is  the  di- 


352  EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW. 

vine  law  in  its  influence  over  men.  It  is  designed  for  all 
men.  It  can  reach  all  men.  It  not  only  claims  to  be  su- 
perior in  the  universality  of  its  jurisdiction,  but  it  meets 
human  law  in  its  own  narrow  sphere,  the  sphere  for  which 
it  has  been  adjusted  and  modeled,  and  it  claims  the  victory 
there. 

I  ask,  where  is  there  a  human  statute  which  extends 
over  all  the  earth,  which  reaches  with  its  command  and 
its  penalty  the  subjects  of  all  dynasties,  which  protects  and 
punishes  the  savage  in  the  wilderness,  while  it  exerts  its 
power  over  you  and  me  ?  The  constitution  of  things  for- 
bids the  possibility  of  such  a  wide  reaching  law.  I  am 
not  finding  fault  with  the  arrangements  of  government, 
or  the  divisions  of  society.  I  do  not  say  that  it  would  be 
better  on  the  whole,  if  all  mankind  could  be  gathered  into 
one  family,  or  that  justice  would  be  as  well  administered 
if  there  was  but  one  legal  code  ;  I  only  wish  to  call  your 
attention  to  the  extreme  narrowness  of  the  sphere  in 
which  any  law  can  operate.  The  natural  boundaries 
which  separate  states,  the  diversities  in  opinion  and  lan- 
guage, the  distances  which  human  speed  and  sagacity 
cannot  easily  overcome,  all  put  a  limit  to  the  extent  of 
government,  and  require  that  human  law,  however  uniform 
its  principles,  be  restricted  in  its  influence.  The  man 
who  steps  across  the  little  stream  that  skirts  our  own  vil- 
lage, is  beyond  the  eye  of  the  executive  under  whose  pe- 
culiar and  immediate  authority  we  live,  and  the  man  who 
goes  a  little  farther,  and  crosses  another  boundary  almost 
as  narrow,  removes  himself  from  the  power  and  the  pro- 
tection of  that  great  national  constitution  which  is  our 
boast  and  glory.  Let  the  relations  between  the  separate 
governments  be  as  intimate  and  as  friendly  as  they  may, 
and  let  law  protect  herself  as  she  does  among  us,  by  the 
officer  of  public  justice  standing  across  the  boundary  with 
the  seals  of  both   states  in  his  right  hand,   there   always 


EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW.  353 

have  been,  and  there  always  must  be,  incident  to  these 
limits  of  dominion,  evasions  of  rectitude,  and  escapes 
from  penalty.  Compare  with  this  the  wide  extent  of  the 
divine  law,  obligatory  as  it  is  upon  men  of  every  clime 
and  tongue,  covering  the  remotest  dwellers  on  the  face  of 
the  earth  under  the  same  broad  shield  of  protection,  issu- 
ing its  mandates  alike  to  the  civilized  and  the  barbarous, 
to  the  proud  citizen  of  a  free  government,  and  the  cring- 
ing slave  under  a  despot's  chain — the  same  every  where 
and  to  all  in  its  present  influence,  and  able  to  gather  all 
in  the  day  of  reckoning,  from  every  kindred  and  tribe 
and  people  under  heaven,  around  the  same  tribunal  of 
judgment. 

But  let  us  bring  the  question  to  a  still  closer  issue.  We 
have  tested  the  extent  of  human  law  in  its  reference  to 
mankind  at  large,  let  us  now  examine  it  in  its  power  over 
the  few  who  are  included  within  its  admitted  and  narrow 
jurisdiction.  We  shall  find  even  here,  that  the  divine 
law  reaches  farther  than  the  ordinance  of  man  ;  for  who 
can  pretend  that  every  criminal  receives  at  the  hand  of 
the  law  under  whose  authority  he  lives,  the  deserts  of 
justice  ?  How  many  a  shrewd  transgressor  can  sin  under 
the  very  eye  of  the  government,  without  detection.  How 
many  a  detected  cri  i  inal  can  take  the  wings  of  the  morn- 
ing and  fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea,  where  the 
eagle-eye  of  the  police  and  the  sentence  of  the  court  can- 
not follow  him.  If  in  the  providence  of  God  it  almost 
always  happens,  that  crime  meets  with  its  reward  even  in 
this  life,  it  is  not  so  much  from  the  vigilance  of  man,  as 
from  that  sense  of  divine  law  which  agitates  the  guilty, 
which  rouses  conscience  from  its  long  slumber,  which 
makes  the  criminal  become  his  own  betrayer.  Under  the 
eye  of  God,  there  can  be  no  trickery  to  deceive,  no  mist 
to  blind,  no  speed  to  run  away  from  its  searching  gaze. 
For  that  law  we  bear  about  within  us.  It  is  inseparable 
30* 


354  EXTENT    OP    THE    DIVINE    LAW. 

from  our  being.  It  follows  us  wherever  we  go.  The 
more  we  try  to  look  away  from  that  living  tablet  of  the 
heart,  the  more  its  characters  blaze  out  with  flames  of 
indignation,  and  while  we  run  away  from  its  drawn  sword, 
iit  smites  us  to  the  earth. 

Whether  we  look  then  at  the  universe  of  being,  at  the 
world  of  mankind,  or  at  the  jurisdiction  of  an  earthly 
court,  we  find  that  the  divine  law  is  superior,  because  it 
reaches  so  far  that  not  a  solitary  being  eludes  its  sway. 

Secondly,  I  notice  as  an  indication  of  the  fitness  of  the 
divine  for  a  universal  law — to  comprehend  all  beings,  es- 
pecially all  men  under  its  sway — the  circumstance  that  it 
is  intelligible  to  all. 

The  mysteries  of  human  law  are  in  the  hands  of  a  fa- 
vored few.  It  requires  years  of  patient  study  to  become 
familiar  with  them,  and  the  best  labors  of  a  long  life  to 
master  them  thoroughly.  Even  then,  there  is  scarcely  a 
nice  question  that  shall  be  started  which  will  not  send  the 
jurist  to  his  library,  to  consult  his  standard  authorities,  or 
look  over  his  file  of  precedents.  The  court  are  often  dis- 
agreed as  to  the  precise  force  and  tenor  of  the  books,  and 
the  language  of  the  statutes  is  often  so  involved  in  techni- 
cal intricacies  and  circumlocutions,  that  the  mass  of  the 
people  can  be  acquainted  with  them  only  through  their 
learned  interpreters.  Every  attempt  to  correct  these  de- 
ficiencies is  deserving  of  praise,  and  will  not  be  without 
great  benefit  to  the  state ;  but  let  the  digest  be  as  lucid 
and  accessible  as  it  may  be,  how  large  a  proportion  of 
those  who  see  it  and  read  it,  are  ignorant  of  the  principles 
on  which  it  is  founded  ;  how  many  individuals  never  see  it 
at  all.  The  changes  too,  to  which  the  wisdom  of  our 
legislators  is  constantly  exposing  the  statute  book,  cannot 
but  introduce  confusion  and  embarrassment  into  the 
popular  study  of  the  law,  so  that  legal  science,  exalted  as 
may  be  its  origin,  and  ennobling  as  may  be  its  principles, 


EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW.  355 

must  be  considered  too  deep  and  obscure  and  variable  to 
be  intelligible  to  the  mass  of  our  citizens. 

But  how  different  the  law  of  God  !  So  simple — com- 
prehended as  it  is  in  those  few  short  words,  Love  to  God 
and  love  to  man.  So  clear — clothed  as  it  is  in  no  misty 
and  redundant  verbiage,  but  in  the  forcible  characters  of 
conscience.  So  unchangeable  in  form  and  spirit — that 
heaven  and  earth  may  pass  away  before  one  jot  or  tittle  of 
that  law  shall  vary.  Throughout  the  universe  of  God 
there  is  not  a  solitary  individual,  however  low  his  condi- 
tion, however  impoverished  his  attainments,  that  can  say 
with  truth,  this  great  law  of  eternal  rectitude  I  have  never 
known  ;  for  every  human  being  bears  within  his  own  soul 
a  record  plain  and  legible  of  the  heavenly  mandate,  and 
if  he  pervert  its  meaning  or  disregard  its  injunction,  it  is 
his  own  fault. 

It  is  a  familiar  principle  of  human  jurisprudence,  that 
ignorance  of  the  law  can  excuse  no  one.  And  although 
there  may  be  solitary  cases  where  the  operation  of  this 
rule  may  not  be  strictly  equitable,  its  uniformity  no  doubt 
fortifies  the  state  against  much  falsehood  and  evasion. 
But  the  divine  law  goes  further.  It  holds  not  only  that 
ignorance  is  no  excuse  for  the  criminal,  but  that  it  rather 
aggravates  his  guilt.  When  he  dares  to  plead  ignorance 
of  what  might  have  been  so  intelligible,  he  accuses  him- 
self of  having  blotted  out  the  hand-writing  of  conscience, 
of  having  shut  his  eyes  to  the  light,  of  having  voluntarily 
chosen  darkness  and  blindness — and  his  doom  must  be 
that  of  one  who  has  committed  suicide  upon  his  moral 
nature,  and  trampled  under  foot  the  precious  record  which 
the  Creator  had  inscribed  upon  his  heart. 

Thirdly,  I  remark  in  proof  of  the  universality  of  the 
divine  law,  in  its  application  to  individuals,  that  it  com- 
mends itself  to  all. 

There  are  many  human  laws  which  we  are  forced  to 


356  EXTENT    OP    THE    DIVINE    LAW. 

obey,  against  which  we  are  prone  to  murmur.  Our  own 
country  has  been  recently  the  scene  of  an  almost  unpre- 
cedented excitement,  in  consequence  of  the  hostility  of  a 
part  of  the  community  to  certain  acts  of  the  government, 
which  were  becoming  the  supreme  law  of  the  land.  The 
most  fearful  revolutions  which  the  world  has  ever  wit- 
nessed, have  been  the  result  of  differences  of  opinion 
with  regard  to  law.  The  views  of  men  vary  with  their 
circumstances.  And  as  "  to  err  is  human,"  it  would  not 
be  strange  if  many  a  code  imposed  upon  its  subjects  bur- 
dens greater  than  they  could  bear. 

But  of  the  divine  law  we  must  acknowledge  that  it  is 
always  right.  In  every  man's  bosom  it  recognizes  a 
friend  who  will  plead  long  and  faithfully  for  its  vindica- 
tion ;  and  he  who  rises  up  against  it  in  rebellion,  rises  up 
against  his  own  soul.  It  never  utters  its  voice  of  com- 
mand, where  there  is  not  a  consciousness  of  ability  to 
obey.  It  is  never  slighted,  without  a  pang  of  remorse  to 
prove  that  its  requirements  were  due.  Even  its  terrors, 
however  much  we  deceive  ourselves  for  a  time,  its  terrors, 
I  say,  are  in  harmony  with  the  very  elements  of  our 
being  ;  and  those  who  suffer  under  its  eternal  frown,  feel 
constrained  to  go  down  to  perdition  without  a  murmur  at 
their  doom,  and  to  admire  forever  the  justice  and  awful 
goodness  that  condemn  them. 

We  see  then  that  the  divine  law,  in  its  application  to 
individuals,  has  a  wider  and  broader  field  than  laws  of 
men.  It  comprehends  the  whole  human  race  beneath  its 
sway.  There  is  not  one  who  fails  to  acknowledge  its 
rectitude.  There  is  not  one  who  can  mistake  its  clear 
directions.  There  is  not  one  who  can  withdraw  from  its 
gaze  or  its  power.  My  hearer,  thou  art  a  subject  of  that 
law.  Amid  the  millions  throughout  the  universe  for 
whom  it  is  administered,  it  singles  out  thee  from  the 
mass :  and  for  thee  its  vigilance  is  as   searching   and  its 


EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW.  357 

penalty  as  sure,  as  if  thou  wert  the  only  being  in  all  God's 
creation ;  as  if  for  thee  alone  the  moral  code  was  devised, 
and  for  thee  alone  the  blazing  summit  gave  forth  its  voice 
of  terror,  and  for  thee  alone  the  smoke  of  their  torment 
ascendeth  up  forever  and  ever. 

II.  I  proceed  to  notice  as  another  proof  of  the  superior 
broadness  of  the  divine  law,  that  it  extends  to  all  moral 
actions. 

It  not  only  includes  all  moral  beings  under  its  sway, 
but  it  takes  cognizance  of  every  act  however  trivial  and 
minute.  Not  the  most  secret  conduct  of  the  most  se- 
cluded individual  escapes  its  gaze  or  its  award. 

Let  us  notice  the  different  classes  of  actions  which 
elude  the  vigilance  of  human  law,  that  we  may  see  the 
superiority  of  the  divine  government  in  ferreting  out  every 
species  of  transgression. 

There  is  a  large  class  of  delinquencies  within  its  ad- 
mitted cognizance,  which,  as  we  have  already  observed, 
the  law  of  man  can  never  reach.  It  cannot  punish  crime 
unless  its  commission  be  supported  by  ample  testimony — 
and  how  many  an  action  has  it  summoned  to  the  bar  of 
justice,  where  an  ingenious  defence  has  confused  the  evi- 
dences of  guilt,  or  contrived  a  thousand  subterfuges  from 
the  strict  enforcement  of  the  penalty.  It  is  wise  in  our 
judicatures,  that  they  lean  on  the  side  of  mercy ;  but  no 
doubt  in  so  doing  they  leave  the  wrong  unpunished,  as 
often  as  they  extricate  the  unfortunate  from  embarrass- 
ment. How  much  superior  is  the  execution  of  that 
divine  law,  which  needs  no  testimony  to  aid  its  super- 
vision of  human  conduct,  but  can  discern  every  thing  by 
the  infallible  insight  of  the  great  Lawgiver  himself.  And 
let  the  man  perform  his  deed  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
with  no  witnesses,  not  even  the  birds  of  the  air,  to  the 
foul  transaction  ;  let  him  bury  every  trace  of  his  crime 
so  deep  in  the  earth  that  a  human  eye  cannot  penetrate 


358  EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW. 

to  it ;  let  him  put  a  seal  upon  his  lips,  or  retire  alone  to 
the  wilderness,  lest  his  conscious  guilt  speak  out  the 
story  of  his  shame — the  eye  of  the  divine  law  has  seen 
that  crime,  and  the  book  of  remembrance  has  recorded 
it,  and  the  day  of  judgment  shall  reveal  it  upon  the 
housetop,  with  a  distinctness  equalled  only  by  the  vivid 
consciousness  of  the  criminal. 

It  is  another  peculiarity  of  human  law,  with  regard  to 
the  actions  within  its  cognizance,  that  it  must  stop  with 
the  outward  development.  It  can  discern  only  the  exter- 
nal act,  without  judging  of  the  intents  and  purposes  of 
the  heart.  I  know  there  are  many  cases  where  a  mali- 
cious purpose  is  included  in  the  indictment,  and  must  be 
shown  to  exist  before  the  accused  person  can  be  found 
guilty.  But  I  suppose  that  in  reality  this  is  only  a  legal 
fiction,  in  faint  and  distant  imitation  of  the  divine  law, 
which  makes  the  bad  motive  the  whole  crime.  Strictly 
speaking,  our  courts  never  judge  or  condemn  any  thing 
but  the  outward  act.  This  is  evident,  because  the  se- 
cretly cherished  purpose  is  never  noticed,  until  something 
is  said  or  done  or  attempted  to  be  done ;  and  whenever 
the  malicious  purpose  is  included  in  the  indictment,  the 
crime  is  not  so  much  inferred  from  the  malice,  as  the 
malice  from  the  nature  and  circumstances  of  the  crime. 
The  law,  if  it  ever  notices  the  intention  or  motive,  goes 
from  without  inward,  and  from  something  the  man  has 
done,  judges  what  must  have  been  his  motive.  Now  in 
the  divine  law  the  process  is  just  the  reverse,  from  within 
outward.  It  notices  the  man's  motive  first  of  all ;  and 
from  the  character  of  the  motive,  it  determines  the  char- 
acter of  what  he  has  done.  And  how  much  more 
accurate  must  be  the  decisions,  and  how  much  more 
complete  the  judgments  of  that  law,  which  is  not  forced 
by  the  limits  of  its  knowledge  to  reason  perpetually  in  a 
circle — inferring   the   malice   from    the   crime    and   the 


EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW.  359 

crime  back  again  from  the  malice — but  which  takes  the 
natural  course,  goes  up  at  once  to  the  fountain-head,  the 
thoughts  and  purposes  of  the  heart,  and  knows  from  them 
what  must  be  the  issues  in  life  and  conduct. 

But  there  are  many  external  acts  which  human  law 
cannot  reach  with  propriety,  as  it  does  not  pretend  to  do. 
It  cannot  enter  the  domestic  circle,  and  correct  the 
private  ills  of  the  family  group.  It  cannot  check  or 
soften  the  acerbities  of  temper.  It  cannot  push  down 
the  ebullitions  of  envy  or  hatred  or  jealousy.  It  cannot 
discern  the  petty  tricks  of  trade.  It  cannot  hale  a  man 
to  justice  because  he  is  pursuing  the  ends  of  a  grasping 
ambition,  or  hoarding  the  treasures  of  a  selfish  avarice, 
or  making  profit  on  the  ruin  of  his  neighbor's  soul.  It 
cannot  punish  the  thousand  omissions  of  duty,  the  neglect 
of  the  sanctuary  and  the  Bible,  and  the  steeled  heart 
against  the  cry  of  the  poor.  These  and  similar  things 
are  wisely  and  justly  beyond  the  province  of  human  law; 
and  it  ought  not  to  intrude  its  visage  too  far  into  the 
chambers  of  conscience  where  God  sits  on  the  judgment 
seat.  But  oh  !  thou  correct  and  exemplary  citizen  ;  thou 
who  hast  kept  every  law  in  the  statute-book  from  thy 
youth  up  ;  thou  who  boastest  thyself  that  thou  hast  never 
stood  at  the  criminal's  bar,  or  turned  pale  at  the  sheriff's 
mittimus,  or  shivered  in  the  damp  walls  of  a  jail,  think 
not,  most  perfect  man,  think  not  that  it  shall  be  so  with 
thee  at  the  divine  assize.  Terrible  must  be  the  reckon- 
ing, when  the  weak,  whom  thy  slanderous  or  angry 
tongue  has  wounded,  when  the  ruined  whom  thy  secret 
dishonesty  has  wronged,  when  the  destitute,  whose  wants 
thou  hast  slighted,  all  rise  up  as  witnesses  that  thou  hast 
violated  the  great  law  of  love,  that  thou  hast  wronged  thy 
neighbor,  that  thou  hast  hated  thine  own  mother's  son. 

But  it  is  the  grand  superiority  of  the  divine  law  in  this 
respect,  that  its  chief  cognizance  is  of  the  spiritual  man, 


EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW. 

of  the  affections  of  the  heart,  with  which  human  ordi- 
nances from  their  very  nature  can  have  nothing  to  do. 
Where  the  law  of  man  lifts  its  salutary  warning,  and 
proclaims,  thou  shalt  not  do  the  hurtful  or  the  impure  or 
the  mean  thing,  the  law  of  God  goes  further  and  says, 
thou  shalt  not  cherish  the  incipient  feeling  which  prompts 
to  the  act,  thou  shalt  not  gaze  with  the  eye  of  longing  on 
the  polluted  object.  The  law  of  God  goes  further  still, 
and  where  it  would  be  profane  and  blasphemous  for  the 
edict  of  man  to  enter,  into  the  inner  sanctuary,  the  very 
holy  of  holies  of  the  human  bosom,  it  discerns  the  state 
of  the  religious  affections,  the  relation  of  the  heart 
towards  God.  If  it  finds  rebellion  there,  if  it  finds  posi- 
tive hatred,  or  if  it  finds  only  a  passive  disobedience  to 
the  great  command.  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God 
with  all  thy  soul,  it  will  not  deign  to  look  further — let  the 
man  be  as  good  as  he  may  be  in  his  own  and  in  other's 
esteem  ;  let  him  be  unfaltering  in  his  loyalty  to  govern- 
ment and  to  law,  and  even  perfect  in  his  citizenship ;  let 
him  be  amiable  in  the  private  and  benevolent  in  the 
public  walks  of  life — if  the  love  of  God  be  absent  from 
the  soul,  it  esteems  all  these  virtues,  not  as  worthless, 
but,  so  far  as  religion  is  concerned,  as  nothing  better 
than  the  poisoned  streams  from  a  poisoned  fountain.  As 
it  summons  the  spiritual  criminal  to  the  bar,  it  proclaims 
as  the  great  and  fearful  principle  on  which  the  trial  must 
proceed — Whosoever  shall  keep  the  whole  law,  and  yet 
offend  in  one  point,  is  guilty  of  all. 

III.  I  notice  as  the  last  evidence  of  the  superior  broad- 
ness of  the  divine  law,  that  it  extends  through  all  dura- 
tion. 

Time  is  one  of  the  chief  limits  to  the  operation  of  a 
human  code.  The  reaper  in  his  flight  cuts  down  the 
tares  as  well  as  the  wheat,  and  the  vices  of  men  with 
their  virtues  are  lost  in  the  lapse  of  years.     The  memory 


EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW.  361 

of  a  crime  long  ago  committed  is  faded  and  indistinct, 
and  the  evidences  may  be  so  confused  in  the  distance, 
that  the  guilty  will  escape  his  doom.  Human  law  too  can- 
not reach  beyond  the  present  life.  The  capital  offender 
may  anticipate  the  sword  of  justice,  by  laying  violent 
hands  upon  himself,  and  his  lifeless  frame,  hanging  sus- 
pended from  the  grate  of  his  cell  or  dashed  against  its 
granite  walls,  becomes  a  ghastly  mockery  of  the  court, 
and  seems  to  proclaim,  in  sepulchral  tones,  I  am  beyond 
your  power  now.  The  waiting  executioner  cannot  call 
back  the  suspended  animation,  and  the  sheriff  must  knock 
in  vain  at  the  door  of  the  dead. 

But  not  so  the  divine  law.  It  is  not  subject  to  the  mu- 
tations of  time.  Co-existent  with  the  Deity  who  is  its 
great  administrator,  its  broad  sweep  is  from  eternity,  into 
eternity,  through  eternity.  The  same  yesterday,  to-day, 
and  forever,  it  brings  up  the  crime  of  a  century's  growth, 
as  if  it  were  but  a  moment  old.  Its  action,  like  the  be- 
ing of  God,  is  an  eternal  now  ;  and  upon  the  guilty  it  has 
its  eye,  ever  with  the  same  fixed  gaze.  He  may  hurry 
away  into  forgetfulness  of  himself  and  all  around  him, 
but  the  eye  is  there  still.  He  may  rush  heedless  into 
eternity,  but  the  same  eye  meets  him  in  the  world  of 
spirits,  lighted  up  with  new  fires,  which  wake  the  memo- 
ries of  his  old  guilt  from  their  long  oblivion,  and  stir  up 
the  remorseful  consciousness  of  present  alienation  from 
good.  Here  is  the  chief  extent  of  the  divine  law,  that  its 
obligations  and  its  penalties  are  both  eternal.  Sometimes 
in  this  life  it  will  begin  the  work  of  retribution,  and  kin- 
dle the  flames  of  conscience  with  all  the  terrors  of  a  pres- 
ent and  living  hell ;  but  its  grand  sphere  is  in  eternity, 
where  the  spirit  is  left  bare  to  its  searching  gaze,  to  the 
recollection  of  past  and  the  consciousness  of  present 
guilt,  compelled  to  hear  the  constant  mandate  to  do  right, 
yet  as  often  of  its  own  free,  evil  nature  drawing  back  to 
31 


EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW. 

do  wrong,  and  withering  under  that  same  eye  which 
blazes  on  forever,  and  ever,  and  ever.  This  is  the  awful 
power  of  law  when  for  the  last  time  it  seals  up  the  book 
of  account,  and  all  its  kind  efforts  to  retrieve  the  criminal 
have  proved  unavailing,  and  obstinately  and  wilfully  he 
enters  the  prison  door,  and  invites  the  avenging  stroke. 
Oh  !  Lord,  how  long  1  may  be  his  distressing  interrogatory 
when  ages  on  ages  have  rolled  over  his  imprisoned  spirit, 
till  his  own  history  looks  like  an  eternal  past.  Oh  !  Lord, 
how  long?  but  the  answer  that  comes  from  the  judgment- 
seat,  proclaims  that  the  arm  of  the  law  is  as  broad  as  infi- 
nite duration,  and  its  punishment  must  be  as  deathless  as 
conscience  and  the  soul. 

My  friends,  it  becomes  us  to  tremble  at  such  a  law  as 
this.  Our  own  consciences  and  the  word  of  God  pro- 
claim that  the  divine  law  is  such,  and  that  we  are  the  sub- 
jects of  it.  It  is  a  law  that  pervades  the  universe,  and  it 
fixes  its  eye  and  stretches  out  its  arm  over  you  and  over 
me.  It  is  a  law  that  is  all-penetrating,  and  it  treasures 
up  our  secret  as  well  as  our  out-breaking  sins  ;  it  sits  by 
our  side  in  the  sanctuary,  and  it  follows  us  home  to  the 
fireside  and  the  closet,  and  whether  we  sin  with  the  hand 
or  the  tongue,  or  the  mind,  it  notes  all  down  alike.  It  is 
a  law  that  is  eternal — in  old  age,  it  binds  us  as  it  did  in 
youth — in  the  grave,  corruption  cannot  stay  its  power — 
never,  never,  never,  shall  we  cease  to  hear  its  thrilling 
tones.  It  is  a  law,  whose  worm,  I  speak  the  language  of 
inspiration,  whose  worm,  if  it  be  once  let  in  upon  the 
soul,  can  never  die  ;  whose  flame,  if  it  be  once  kindled, 
burns  on  and  on,  forever.  Oh  !  my  friends,  from  a  law 
like  this,  so  personal,  so  searching,  so  lasting,  so  terrible, 
which  way  shall  we  flee  ?  Within  is  the  despair  of  con- 
scious guilt.  Around,  which  way  soever  we  turn,  is  that 
keen  eye  and  that  iron  sceptre  and  that  blazing  scroll. 
But  above  them  all,  blessed   be  God   for  that  sight,  above 


EXTENT    OF    THE    DIVINE    LAW.  363 

them  all  is  the  cross  of  Christ,  and  on  its  front,  we  trace 
in  living  characters — **  not  to  destroy,  but  to  fulfil  " — 
*•  Look  unto  me,  and  be  ye  saved,  all  the  ends  of  the 
earth." 


NOTE. 

A  member  of  the  Piscataqua  Association  has  given  the  subjoined  account 
of  the  preceding  discourse. — "  It  was  my  lot  to  hear  but  one  of  Mr.  Ho- 
mer's sermons.  The  text  was,  '  Thy  commandment  is  exceeding  broad.' 
It  was  preached  at  Kingston,  at  a  meeting  of  our  association  of  ministers. 
The  effect  on  a  plain  and  rather  small  audience  was  sufficient  to  prove  a 
high  testimonial  to  his  power.  'J'he  attention  of  the  hearers  was  sustained 
fully,  and  at  times  his  vivid  and  forcible  illustrations  excited  a  thrill  of  sol- 
emn feeling.  He  succeeded,  I  think,  in  impressing  deeply  on  the  minds  of 
all,  the  amazing  majesty  of  the  divine  law,  and  the  alarming  condition  of 
every  impenitent  man.  As  far  as  I  remember  now,  the  sermon  did  not 
close  with  a  very  full  reference  to  a  method  of  salvation.  1  remarked  to 
him  at  the  time,  that  it  was  a  pity  he  had  not  blended  with  his  successful  and 
truly  alarming  appeals  some  closing  suggestions  to  direct  the  mind  to  the 
Saviour.  It  seemed  to  me  at  the  lime  that  he  was  unconscious  how  skill- 
fully and  successfully  he  had  harrowed  up  the  minds  of  his  hearers  with 
pointed  truth,  and  that  this  might  account  for  the  absence  of  a  more  evan- 
gelical appeal  at  the  close;  he  did  not  seem  to  know  how  necessary  his 
sermon  rendered  a  reference  to  Christ.  His  manner  and  style  were  both 
intensely  earnest;  not  violent  or  spasmodic,  and  yet  so  energetic  as  to  pre- 
sent a  striking  contrast  with  his  slender  form." 

In  reference  to  the  criticism  which  this  judicious  writer  has  made  upon 
the  conclusion  of  Mr.  Homer's  sermon,  it  may  be  remarked,  that  the  error 
specified,  if  it  be  an  error,  was  one  of  principle,  rather  than  an  oversight  in 
practice.  Singleness  of  view,  unity  of  impression,  was  an  especial  aim  of 
Mr.  Homer  in  his  sermons ;  and  he  disliked  to  admit  into  his  peroration  any 
thought  or  sentiment  which  varied,  even  in  its  shading,  from  the  spirit  and 
genius  of  his  discussion.  He  often  spoke  against  the  practice  of  closing  a 
sermon  designed  for  Christians,  with  an  exhortation  to  sinners,  and  vict 
versa.  He  was  fearful  of  weakening  one  impression  by  an  attempt  to  make 
another ;  and  if  he  succeeded  in  leaving  a  stamp  upon  the  mind  by  any  sin- 
gle appeal,  he  chose  not  to  efface  it  by  adding  a  new  stamp,  however  excel- 
lent in  itself. 

This  sermon  was  preached  to  his  own  people  at  South  Berwick,  Dec.  6, 
1840 ',  at  the  Baptist  church  in  South  Berwick  3  at  Kingston,  Great  Falls, 
and  Exeter^  N.  H, 


SERMON  XIII 


THE  CHAKACTER  AND  THE  REWARD  OF  ENOCH. 


AND  ENOCH  WALKED   WITH   GOD  :    AND    HE  WAS   NOT,   FOR  GOD    TOOK. 

HIM. — Gen.  5  :  24. 

This  precious  relic  of  antediluvian  history  occurs  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  those  genealogical  tables  so  frequent 
in  Jewish  annals,  and  so  useful  in  preserving  our  Sa- 
viour's lineage.  It  is  remarkable  for  several  reasons.  It 
is  the  only  record  of  religious  character  in  the  regular 
succession  of  the  patriarchs  down  to  the  time  of  Noah. 
Enoch  was  the  seventh  from  Adam.  Of  his  great  pro- 
genitor, subsequently  to  the  fall,  our  account  is  extremely 
limited,  presenting  only  the  enumeration  of  his  children 
and  his  years.  Of  the  other  patriarchs  it  is  simply  re- 
corded that  they  lived,  and  that  they  died.  Of  Enoch, 
however,  the  historian  attempts  to  draw  a  more  full  and 
accurate  portrait.  This  portrait  is  interesting,  as  it  pre- 
sents the  spectacle  of  a  good  man  in  the  midst  of  a  cor- 
rupt and  degenerate  age.  The  sacred  history  informs  us, 
that  the  depravity  of  man  was  now  fearfully  increasing 
throughout  the  earth.  The  prevalent  neglect  of  public 
worship  among  the  descendants  of  Cain  ;  the  pride  that 
was   engendered   in   their   hearts   by   the   skill  of  such 


Enoch's  character  and  reward.  365 

artificers  as  Jubal  and  Tubal,  and  by  the  physical  strength 
of  the  giants  in  those  days ;  and  more  than  all  the  great  age 
to  which  they  lived,  putting  far  off  the  thought  of  death, 
and  giving  to  individual  sin  a  gigantic  growth,  were 
among  the  circumstances  which  contributed  to  this  alarm* 
ing  spread  of  corruption.  But  amid  them  all,  how  de- 
lightful the  thought,  that  there  was  one,  who  "  faithful 
found  among  the  faithless,"  maintained  a  friendship  with 
God,  and  carried  in  his  holy  life  the  seeds  of  the  hidden 
church.  This  notice  of  Enoch  is  also  interesting  as  it 
comprises  a  precious  biography,  with  sublime  conciseness, 
in  a  single  sentence,  and  as  it  holds  up  so  simply  and  so 
beautifully  the  pattern  of  a  perfect  life,  and  a  glorious  exit. 
I  know  of  no  name  in  ancient  history  more  worthy  of 
Christian  emulation  than  the  name  of  Enoch.  It  outshines 
not  only  the  glitter  of  earthly  conquest  and  secular  renown, 
but  it  has  a  charm  surpassing  that  of  inspired  story, 
where  the  venerable  and  the  mighty  and  the  gifted  are 
the  theme.  It  may  be  a  peculiar  fantasy  of  mine,  but  for 
myself,  brethren,  I  would  rather  be  Enoch  in  the  solitary 
grandeur  of  patriarchal  holiness,  than  David  with  princely 
crown,  or  Elijah  with  prophet's  sword,  or  Isaiah  with 
harp  of  majestic  melody.  There  could  not  be  a  more 
soothing  unction  to  my  soul,  than  to  have  it  come  down 
from  that  dark,  mysterious  period,  in  sweet  and  simple 
record,  "  He  walked  with  God — he  was  not,  for  God  took 
him." 

Our  text  presents  the  character  of  Enoch,  and  its  re- 
compense; each  singular  and  striking  in  language  and  in 
fact.  Let  us  consider  the  peculiar  superiority  of  that  life, 
and  the  nature  and  propriety  of  its  reward, 

I.  We  will  consider  the  character  of  Enoch,  and  at- 
tempt to  develop  the  significance  gf  the  descripljon,  "  he 
walked  with  God." 

3i» 


366 

First,  This  language  implies  that  he  maintained  habit- 
ual communion  with  God. 

There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  his  communion  was 
aided  by  any  visible  manifestations  of  his  almighty  Friend. 
Such  peculiar  intercourse  between  God  and  man  was  not 
uncommon  at  that  early  period,  but  it  seems  to  have  been 
reserved  for  uncommon  emergencies,  and  for  the  revela- 
tion of  important  promises  or  threatenings.  It  is  hardly 
probable,  that  the  piety  of  the  early  saints  was  dependent 
for  its  culture  on  what  was  tangible  and  palpable,  and  in- 
deed the  peculiar  excellence  of  Enoch  is  ascribed  by  the 
apostle  to  that  faith  which  is  "  the  evidence  of  things 
not  seen." 

There  is  an  affection  which  brings  near  to  the  heart  the 
absent  one,  though  long  and  far  removed  from  the  outward 
eye.  Should  the  visible  world  be  completely  shut  out 
from  view,  the  ever-living  love  would  of  itself  make  a 
spiritual  presence  within  the  soul.  And  those  thoughts 
that  dwelt  only  on  the  distant,  would  bring  the  distant 
near.  Then  let  the  outward  eye  be  opened,  to  gaze  not 
on  cold  and  vacant  objects,  but  upon  scenes  of  nature 
which  were  all  associated  with  the  departed;  let  the  green 
fields  be  the  same  through  which  he  has  walked  with  us, 
and  the  blue  heavens  the  same  on  which  he  has  gazed 
with  us,  and  from  each  flower  and  tree  the  voice  of  the 
absent  will  speak  to  us,  and  from  each  star  the  face  of  the 
absent  will  look  down  on  us  ;  then  let  a  real  communica- 
tion be  maintained  with  the  departed,  by  messages  of 
love,  and  records  of  history  crossing  the  land  or  the  sea, 
and  bringing  back  tidings  and  tokens  which  the  well- 
known  hand  has  sealed,  and  how  perfect  may  be  the  com- 
munication between  human  beings  in  their  hours  of  sepa- 
ration ;  how  they  may  walk  together,  though  invisible  and 
inaudible  and  far  asunder.  Now  here  have  we  a  faint 
image  of  Enoch's  communion  with  God.     The  pious  love 


Enoch's  character  and  reward.  367 

which  he  cherished  towards  his  Maker  made  a  divine 
presence  within  his  own  soul,  and  he  could  walk  with 
God  as  the  divine  Spirit  revealed  itself  to  the  eye  of  that 
inward  faith.  When  he  looked  abroad,  it  was  upon  a 
creation  every  object  of  which  was  associated  with  the 
same  invisible  friend,  and  he  could  walk  with  God  as  he 
revealed  himself  in  the  lives  of  holy  brethren  among  the 
patriarchs,  or  in  the  mark  upon  the  forehead  of  Cain. 
All  nature,  as  it  unveiled  its  charms  to  the  young  eye  of 
the  antediluvian,  was  as  the  voice  of  God  speaking  to  him 
in  flocks  and  in  harvests,  from  every  winding  river,  and 
from  every  shady  wood.  Then  he  communed  with  God 
by  intercourse  still  more  direct.  Though  no  blazing 
summit  invited  him  upward  to  talk  with  his  Maker  as  a 
man  talketh  with  his  friend ;  though  no  temple  welcomed 
him  with  priestly  robe  within  its  holy  of  holies,  he  prayed 
to  God  in  his  solitary  tent,  in  the  communion  of  the 
patriarchs,  at  home  and  abroad;  and  when  he  mingled 
with  men,  his  face  shone  like  the  face  of  Moses  coming 
down  from  the  Mount,  and  the  answer  sent  back  from  his 
almighty  Friend  was  richer  than  that  which  descended  on 
the  house  of  Aaron  when  they  ministered  before  the  altar. 
Not  alone  in  the  communion  of  love,  in  the  revelation  of 
outward  nature,  but  by  prayer  did  Enoch  walk  with  God. 

Secondly,  It  is  implied  in  Enoch's  walk  with  God,  that 
he  studied  the  divine  character. 

In  our  earthly  friendships,  we  are  never  satisfied  till  we 
are  thoroughly  acquainted  with  each  other's  souls. 
There  is  a  jealous  curiosity  almost  always  accompanying 
an  ardent  attachment,  which  is  restless  to  discover  each 
plan  and  purpose,  and  must  know  the  inward  feeling  that 
mantles  the  face  with  joy  or  with  gloom.  We  never  feel 
that  friendship  is  consummated  till  there  is  that  perfect 
unbosoming  of  character,  and  *'  as  face  answereth  lo  face 
in  water,  so  the  heart  of  man  to  man." 


368  Enoch's  character  and  reward. 

Now  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Enoch's  piety 
was  of  that  unintellectual  character,  that  he  could  enjoy 
the  society  of  his  heavenly  Friend  without  the  exercise  of 
thought.  Indeed,  he  could  walk  with  one  invisible  only 
as  he  was  acquainted  with  his  attributes ;  and  his  increas- 
ing intimacy  and  affection  must  have  led  him  to  aspire 
after  more  extended  knowledge,  and  to  search  into  the 
deep  things  of  God.  The  opportunities  for  theological 
study  at  that  early  period  may  have  been  extremely 
limited,  but  he  could  have  prosecuted  his  researches 
without  the  aid  of  a  prophet's  school,  or  a  learned  library, 
or  a  systematic  creed.  His  proximity  to  the  period  of 
the  creation  made  him  more  intimate  with  the  great  First 
Cause,  and  he  could  look  back  to  that  immediate  exertion 
of  almighty  power,  as  an  event  less  distant  than  it  is  to 
us.  Adam  died  only  fifty-seven  years  before  Enoch's 
translation,  and  Enoch  probably  enjoyed  the  society  of 
that  remarkable  man  for  more  than  three  centuries. 
From  Adam's  own  lips  he  could  learn  the  story  of  the 
creation,  he  could  become  acquainted  with  the  primeval 
bliss  of  Eden,  he  could  ascertain  that  law  of  paradise 
under  which  our  first  parents  sinned  and  fell,  he  could 
look  with  familiar  gaze  into  the  dark  problem  of  the 
origin  of  evil.  By  a  more  minute  acquaintance  with  the 
events  of  that  mysterious  period,  he  could  attain  a  clearer 
insight  than  we  into  the  operations  of  Providence,  and 
the  wisdom  of  those  counsels  which  were  developed  in 
the  ruin  of  the  human  race.  He  had  moreover  the 
book  of  nature  ever  open  to  him^and  those  works  through 
which  he  communed  with  their  divine  Author  were  pecu- 
liarly rich  in  illustration  of  the  divine  character.  In  his 
own  sanctified  and  inspired  consciousness  he  had  another 
and  better  source  of  sacred  knowledge,  and  favored  as  he 
was  by  the  teachings  of  that  Great  Spirit  whose  society 
he  cultivated,  he   was   no  doubt  as   highly  venerated  for 


Enoch's  character  and  reward.  369 

the  extent  of  his  attainments  as  for  the  depth  of  his 
devotion.  The  patriarchs  consulted  him  as  their  oracle  ; 
the  antediluvian  scholars  treasured  up  his  sayings. 
Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  oriental  traditions, 
which  ascribe  to  him  the  invention  of  letters  and  learn- 
ing, the  literal  import  of  his  name  implies  that  he  was 
initiated  into  rare  mysteries  ;  and  one  of  his  predictions, 
as  it  is  preserved  to  us  by  an  inspired  apostle,  discloses  a 
reach  of  vision  which  from  that  remote  period,  the  very 
beginning  of  the  world's  history,  could  look  down  through 
all  the  lapse  of  ages  to  the  very  last  event  which  is  the 
subject  of  prophecy,  the  final  judgment  of  the  ungodly. 

Thirdly,  It  is  implied  in  the  description  of  Enoch,  that 
he  was  a  co-worker  with  God. 

We  always  look  for  some  active  development  of  love 
in  those  who  profess  to  be  our  friends.  What  we  chiefly 
demand  is  a  sympathy  in  our  pursuits,  a  co-operation  in* 
all  our  plans,  a  willingness  to  aid  us  by  strenuous  and 
even  self-denying  exertions  for  our  welffire.  We  cease  to 
walk  with  that  man  as  a  friend,  who  is  always  professing 
his  regard,  and  deriving  a  kind  of  enjoyment  from  our 
society,  if  he  never  stir  himself  to  forward  our  plans,  and 
in  the  hour  of  need  remain  sluggish  and  cold.  We  sus- 
pect the  motives  of  such  a  friendship,  and  we  turn  away 
in  disgust  from  a  selfishness  that  can  love  us  for  its  own 
satisfiiction,  while  it  will  not  lift  a  finger  to  do  us  good. 

Now  I  see  no  reason  for  a  common  idea  of  Enoch's 
walk  with  God — that  it  was  a  cloistered  and  passive  piety, 
into  which  he  retired,  to  enjoy  the  society  of  his  heavenly 
Friend.  I  do  not  believe  that  he  secluded  himself  from 
earthly  duty,  and  led  the  life  of  a  hermit.  I  suspect  that 
he  would  have  forfeited  his  claim  to  that  blessed  friend- 
ship, if  he  had  shrunk  away  in  cowardice  from  a  wicked 
world  ;  or  that  a  voice  would  have  sought  him  out  in  his 
seclusion,  like  the  voice  that  reached  the  hunted  prophet 


370  Enoch's  character  and  reward. 

of  Israel  in  his  cave — ** What  dost  thou  here,  Elijah?" 
The  very  import  of  the  phrase  in  other  parts  of  the  Bible 
implies  an  active  devotion  to  service  and  to  toil,  and  for 
our  antediluvian  priest  and  prophet  there  could  have 
been  no  hesitating  and  reluctant  discharge  of  duty  ;  he 
must  have  held  himself  ready,  waiting  for  the  call  of  a 
master;  he  must  have  voluntarily  sought  out  occasions  of 
advancing  those  great  purposes  with  which  his  intimacy 
with  the  divine  mind  made  him  familiar. 

Enoch  was  faithful  in  his  family,  and  to  the  world. 
Could  we  learn  the  history  of  Methuselah,  his  first  born 
son,  we  should  see  how  a  father's  care  and  counsel  had 
shed  their  influence  on  that  life  of  nearly  a  thousand 
years.  And  we  are  assured  by  inspired  tradition  that  he 
rose  up  fearlessly  to  reprove  the  flagrant  sins  of  the  age, 
and  to  vindicate  the  honor  of  his  God  from  reproach. 
**  Behold,"  was  his  bold  and  eloquent  language,  as  he 
stood  forth  among  the  profane  and  the  vile,  the  scoffers 
and  the  murderers,  the  contemners  of  God  and  the  cor- 
rupters of  man — as  he  walked  among  them  unharmed, 
jealously  contending  for  his  almighty  Friend,  '*  Behold, 
the  Lord  cometh  with  ten  thousand  of  his  saints,  to  exe- 
cute judgment  upon  all,  and  to  convince  all  that  are 
ungodly  among  them,  of  all  their  ungodly  deeds  which 
they  have  ungodly  committed,  and  of  all  their  hard 
speeches  which  ungodly  sinners  have  spoken  against 
him." 

Fourthly,  It  is  implied  in  Enoch's  walk  with  God,  that 
there  must  have  subsisted  strong  mutual  complacency  be- 
tween him  and  the  Divine  Being. 

"  How  can  two  walk  together  except  they  be  agreed  ?" 
The  discovery  of  mutual  foibles  will  sometimes  mar  the 
warmest  friendships,  and  that  attachment  is  the  most  in- 
timate and  the  most  lasting  which  is  grounded  on  recip- 
rocal esteem. 


Enoch's  character  and  reward.  371 

Now  there  was  evidently  a  peculiar  love  in  the  divine 
mind  towards  this  faithful  and  devoted  servant.  The  an- 
cient translators  of  the  Old  Testament  considered  this  the 
predominant  element  in  the  phrase,  and  as  the  best  expla- 
nation of  his  walk  with  God,  we  read  in  the  Septuagint 
version  of  our  text,  that  Enoch  pleased  God.  Paul  also 
in  the  epistle  to  the  Hebrews  asserts  that  "  before  his 
translation  he  had  this  testimony,  that  he  pleased  God." 
There  was  a  delightful  consciousness  of  the  divine  ap- 
proval diffused  through  his  life.  Ever  he  walked  under 
the  smile  of  a  Father  with  whom  he  was  at  peace.  His 
sins  were  all  forgiven,  his  sacrifices  were  all  acceptable, 
he  looked  forward  with  the  full  assurance  of  hope  to  his 
final  reward. 

Similar  was  the  satisfaction  with  which  he  contem- 
plated the  divine  perfections.  He  admired  that  character 
the  more  he  gazed  and  studied,  and  where  its  mystery 
baffled  his  search  he  bowed  in  humble  adoration.  He  had 
stood  at  the  grave  of  Abel,  and  wept  over  the  early  grave 
of  purity  and  loveliness,  but  he  never  murmured  at  the 
darkness  and  gloom  of  death,  for  it  was  the  portion  which 
God  assigned  to  his  creatures.  It  was  not  for  him  to 
question  the  propriety  of  God's  dispensations.  He  could 
not  blame  the  Creator  for  not  placing  him  in  the  garden, 
instead  of  Adam,  and  intrusting  to  his  pure  and  obedient 
walk  the  destinies  of  the  world.  He  found  no  fault  that 
himself  and  his  children  were  involved  in  that  fearful 
downfall,  as  the  consequence  of  eating  an  apple.  No, 
his  growing  complacency  towards  the  divine  character 
hushed  every  uprising  doubt,  and  he  quieted  himself  in 
the  sweet  assurance,  that  the  friend  with  whom  he  walked 
did  every  thing  right. 

Such  was  Enoch's  happy  walk  with  God — so  spiritual, 
so  intelligent,  so  active,  so  concordant.  Our  earthly 
friendships  are  short-lived.     Our  devotion  to  God   is  fitful 


372 

and  inconstant.  But  that  delightful  walk  was  continued 
for  more  than  three  centuries,  ever  multiplying  its  blessed 
results  upon  his  character,  and  making  his  path  like  the 
shining  light  which  shineth  more  and  more  unto  the  per- 
fect day.  Such  an  intimate  communion  must  have  deep- 
ened his  humility,  comparing  as  he  constantly  did  his 
own  poor  attainments  with  the  perfection  of  his  almighty 
Friend.  It  must  have  increased  his  holiness,  exposing 
his  own  character  to  the  searching  gaze  of  that  eye  which 
cannot  look  upon  sin  but  with  abhorrence.  There  must 
have  been  in  his  own,  a  growing  assimilation  to  the  divine 
life,  as  the  result  of  that  heavenly  communion.  So  he 
was  found  steadily  persevering  in  that  blessed  career, 
when  his  reward  came.  He  walked  with  God,  and  lo! 
he  was  not,  for  God  took  him. 

II.  Let  us  now  proceed  to  consider  the  nature  and  pro- 
priety of  his  reward. 

There  have  been  three  different  opinions  with  regard 
to  the  translation  of  Enoch, 

It  has  been  thought  by  some,  that  the  narrative  alludes 
to  remarkable  persecutions  to  which  this  servant  of  God 
was  exposed,  and  to  his  deliverance  from  them  by  the  di- 
vine hand.  "  He  was  not  found  of  his  enemies,  for  God 
rescued  him."  But  an  interpretation  so  frigid  and  un- 
natural, it  is  not  worth  while  to  examine. 

It  has  been  thought  by  others,  that  the  text  describes 
poetically  the  sudden  death  of  Enoch,  by  which  he  was 
delivered  from  the  pains  of  sickness,  or  the  terrors  of  the 
last  struggle.  It  is  related  of  one  of  our  revolutionary 
statesmen  that  it  was  his  constant  prayer  that  he  might 
die  a  sudden  death.  I  have  stood  by  the  shattered  elm 
which  suffered  with  that  venerable  hero  from  a  liofhtninor 
Stroke.  But  a  desire  like  this  was  too  refined  for  an  an- 
tediluvian patriarch,  and  such  sudden  and  violent  deaths, 
are  more  frequently  in  biblical  history  the  tokens  of  divine 
displeasure. 


Enoch's  character  and  reward.  373 

The  more  probable  opinion  is  the  common  one,  that  by 
miraculous  interposition  he  was  taken  to  heaven  alive, 
without  undergoing  the  terrors  of  death  in  any  form.  It 
is  the  express  assertion  of  the  apostle,  that  he  did  not 
taste  death.  His  death  moreover  was  premature.  He 
did  not  live  out  one-half  of  the  portion  assigned  to  the 
antediluvian  patriarchs — and  although  it  is  the  classic 
superstition  that  **  whom  the  gods  love  die  young,"  it  was 
the  prevalent  notion  of  the  Orientals  that  a  long  life  was 
the  mark  of  God's  peculiar  favor,  while  an  early  death 
was  deemed  the  punishment  for  singular  and  enormous 
guilt.  This  cutting  off  of  the  holy  patriarch  in  the  midst 
of  his  years,  in  the  bloom  and  vigor  of  life,  when  he  was 
a  young  man  only  3G5  years  old,  must  have  been  a  mirac- 
ulous transplanting  of  his  existence  into  another  and  better 
world.  Not  that  he  could  have  entered  heaven  with  his 
terrestrial  body  unchanged,  but  by  some  mysterious  pro- 
cess, as  the  Jewish  Rabbins  described  it,  •*  he  was  disar- 
rayed of  the  foundation  corporeal,  and  clothed  upon  with 
the  foundation  spiritual," — in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  without  the  purifying  transformation  of  death, 
**  he  was  fitted  for  paradise,  to  gaze  on  the  river  of  life, 
and  pluck  the  goodly  fruits  of  the  garden  forever."  Let 
us  consider  the  peculiar  propriety  of  such  a  reward. 

First,  The  good  man  had  become  so  sensitive  to  the 
evil  of  sin,  that  it  must  have  been  extremely  painful  to 
continue  longer  in  a  world  so  deeply  depraved.  His  in- 
timate communion  with  God  was  ever  deepening  and  pu- 
rifying his  piety,  and  the  holier  he  became,  the  more  in- 
tense was  his  abhorrence  of  iniquity.  He  was  sensitive 
to  the  remains  of  it  in  his  own  nature,  and  to  his  divinely 
illumined  eye,  the  personal  transgressions  which  before 
had  escaped  his  notice,  stood  up  like  mountains.  He  was 
pained  also  by  the  outbreakings  of  presumptuous  sin  in 
others.  He  was  daily  doomed  to  hear  the  scoffs  and  blas- 
32 


ttTi  Enoch's  character  and  reward. 

phemies  of  the  ungodly,  to  witness  the  proud  career  of  re- 
bellion as  it  stalked  in  giant  strides  over  the  earth.  He  was 
jealous  for  the  honor  of  his  almighty  Friend,  and  his  ear 
caught  up  each  sound  of  wrong  and  outrage,  and  every 
breathing  of  impiety  sent  a  pang  to  his  pious  heart.  '*  That 
righteous  man  dwelling  among  them  in  seeing  and  hearing, 
vexed  his  righteous  soul  from  day  to  day  with  their  un- 
lawful deeds."  How  fit  that  to  such  a  one  the  day  of  de- 
liverance should  have  been  at  hand,  and  that  midway  in 
the  journey  of  life,  he  should  have  been  caught  up  to  the 
pure  air  and  the  cheering  society  of  heaven. 

Secondly,  His  imperfect  communion  with  God  led  him 
to  pant  for  something  more  intimate.  Delightful  as  had 
been  his  devotional  intercourse  with  his  heavenly  Friend, 
deep  as  had  been  his  insight  into  the  divine  character, 
ardent  and  untiring  as  had  been  the  devotion  of  his  pow- 
ers, he  felt  that  there  were  barriers,  in  his  nature,  which 
kept  down  his  lofty  aspirings,  and  pushed  back  the  ener- 
gies of  which  his  soul  was  capable.  He  felt  such  delight 
in  the  partial  manifestations  he  had  already  received,  that 
his  bosom  heaved  with  irrepressible  longings  that  the 
image  might  be  completed,  and  the  ceaseless  cry  of  his 
soul  was, 

♦'  Oh !  for  a  closer  walk  witli  God." 

He  panted  for  such  union  with  God,  as  would  dim  the 
vision  and  bewilder  the  spirit  of  a  mortal.  He  longed  to 
look  in  with  a  familiar  gaze  on  those  sacred  mysteries 
which  are  hidden  from  human  curiosity.  He  looked  for- 
ward with  eagerness  to  a  sphere  of  exertion,  where  he 
should  not  stand  up  alone  and  unavailing  against  the  arts 
of  the  world  ;  but  where,  newly  endowed,  he  should  enter 
on  some  more  successful  and  glorious  mission  for  his 
king.  His  eye  looked  upward  with  no  selfish  impatience, 
but  with  strong  and   holy  desire.     He  felt  assured  of  the 


Enoch's  character  and  reward.  375 

immortality  of  his  being,  and  of  its  lofty  destination  ;  but 
he  bowed  in  faithful  siibmissiveness,  and  said,  **  all  the 
days  of  my  appointed  time  will  I  wait,  till  my  change 
come."  He  was  in  a  strait  betwixt  two;  when  he  looked 
to  earthly  duty  he  chose  to  perform  it,  because  it  was 
his  Father's  will,  but  yet  with  Paul,  he  said  from  his  in- 
most soul,  "  to  depart  is  far  better."  And  how  fit  that 
those  longings  should  have  been  early  consummated,  in 
the  disrobing  of  the  corporeal  veil  which  obstructed  his 
vision  —  when  he  was  not — not  in  the  gloom  of  spiritual 
famishment  and  dimness — not  in  the  hard  lot  of  the  la- 
borer who  casts  his  seed  upon  the  rocks,  for  God  took 
him  to  himself,  to  the  light  and  the  nutriment  of  heavenly 
society,  to  the  mission  of  angels. 

Thirdly,  Before  the  Christian  era,  death  was  probably 
an  object  of  greater  dread  than  it  has  been  since.  Of  all 
the  patriarchs  and  prophets  under  the  old  dispensation, 
we  read  not  of  one  who  died  in  triumph.  Of  the  antedi- 
luvian saints,  it  is  simply  recorded  that  they  died.  Of 
Abraham  and  Isaac,  it  is  only  written,  that  "  they  gave 
up  the  ghost  in  a  good  old  age,  and  were  gathered  to  their 
people."  Jacob  and  Joseph  depart  with  brilliant  and  de- 
lightful visions  of  prosperity  for  the  nation,  but  they  die 
and  give  no  sign  of  exultation  for  themselves.  Through- 
out the  poetical  parts  of  the  Bible,  the  gloomiest  figures 
are  those  connected  with  the  grave ;  and  if  there  are  pas- 
sages which  express  the  longing  for  a  future  life,  they  are 
so  few  and  so  far  apart  as  to  evince  that  immortality 
had  not  yet  been  fully  brought  to  light.  The  hope  of 
heaven  had  not  become  so  sure  and  so  definite  that  it 
could  throw  its  charm  over  the  sepulchre,  or  light  up  the 
chamber  where  the  good  man  met  his  fate.  It  did  not 
assuage  the  pang  of  bereavement,  it  did  not  kindle  rapt 
visions  in  the  dim  eye,  or  call  forth  strains  of  music  from 
the  faltering  tongue.     And   the  few,  the   favored   ones 


876  Enoch's  character  and  reward. 

whom  God  honored  with  a  triumphal  departure  were  not 
left  to  tread  the  dark  pathway  to  heaven,  but  were  caught 
up  at  once  to  meet  him  in  the  air.  This  was  the  reward 
of  Enoch— that  he  should  not  lie  down  to  a  doom  that 
was  dark  and  hopeless,  and  enter  through  the  tribulation 
of  the  last  struggle  into  his  final  rest,  but  that  he  should 
be  clothed  on  earth  with  an  immortal  nature,  and  without 
stopping  his  earthly  song,  the  music  of  heaven  should  be 
breathed  upon  his  ear. 

Fourthly,  At  the  commencement  of  the  world's  history, 
such  an  indication  of  the  soul's  immortal  existence  as 
was  given  in  the  removal  of  Enoch  was  an  important  part 
of  the  scheme  for  enlightening  and  saving  man. 

It  was  not  God's  design  to  leave  the  old  dispensation  in 
utter  darkness.  The  light  of  a  few  examples,  he  afforded 
to  animate  the  faith,  and  dispel  the  gloom  of  his  chosen. 
If  it  did  not  make  the  death  scene  glorious,  if  it  called 
forth  expressions  of  hope  but  seldom  and  faintly,  it  kept 
the  righteous  from  despair.  The  death  of  Abel  startled 
the  world  into  a  fearful  consciousness  of  what  death  was. 
They  gazed  on  his  pale  face,  they  felt  of  his  cold  limbs, 
they  buried  his  useless  frame.  The  voice  of  his  blood 
cried  from  the  ground  in  words  of  terror  and  vengeance, 
but  no  voice  came  from  his  ransomed  spirit  above,  to 
bring  peace  and  hope  to  those  who  looked  forward  to  the 
same  fate.  Being  dead  he  yet  spoke,  but  he  spoke  of  the 
favors  which  God  imparts  to  a  righteous  man  on  earth, 
rather  than  of  the  rewards  which  he  dispenses  to  the 
saints  in  heaven.  But  the  translation  of  Enoch  was  a  new 
chapter  in  the  spiritual  prophecy.  "  He  was  not."  Men 
met  not  his  face  in  their  familiar  walks,  they  ceased  to 
hear  his  voice  of  faithful  exhortation  ;  but  they  had  not 
gathered  around  his  death  bed,  or  carried  him  out  slowly 
and  heavily  from  his  tent,  or  found  his  bones  upon  the 
mountains.     He   was  not   among  them,   but  they  knew 


Enoch's  character  and  reward.  377 

that  he  was  not  dead.  "  God  took  him."  There  is  then 
a  home  for  the  righteous  soul  with  God,  there  is  existence 
beyond  the  earth,  there  is  reward  for  the  faithful ;  and 
why  not,  was  the  ill-suppressed  though  faint  whisper  of 
ancient  piety,  why  not  look  forward  to  the  abode  of 
Enoch  as  the  mansion  of  all  the  blessed.  "  That  little 
candle"  threw  its  beams  down  through  the  ages  of  patri- 
archal and  national  history.  It  inspired  the  harp  of 
David  when  he  sung,  "  I  shall  be  satisfied  when  I  awake 
with  thy  likeness."  Even  Job  caught  a  glimpse  of  that 
glorious  resurrection  which  it  has  been  supposed  to 
typify,  and  exclaimed,  in  rapt  and  holy  enthusiasm,  '*  I 
know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  though  after  my 
skin  worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  ray  flesh  I  shall  see 
God." 

The  discourse  will  be  concluded  by  two  brief  reflec- 
tions. 

First,  There  is  nothing  in  Enoch's  character  which 
may  not  be  imitated  by  modern  Christians.  He  com- 
muned with  God  by  faith,  by  sight,  by  prayer.  So  can 
we,  for  we  have  a  surer  word  to  inspire  our  faith,  we  can 
see  God  in  richer  and  more  glorious  works,  we  can 
approach  him  by  a  new  and  living  access  to  the  throne  of 
grace.  He  studied  the  divine  character,  and  sought  to 
grow  in  knowledge  while  he  grew  in  piety.  So  may  we, 
in  the  light  of  a  clearer  revelation,  and  a  wider  experi- 
ence than  he  could  consult.  He  sought  to  do  the  divine 
will — in  labors  and  toils  for  his  master,  most  abundant. 
So  may  we,  with  higher  advantages  for  pious  activity, 
with  a  better  soil  on  which  to  work.  He  was  the  friend 
of  God — but  "  behold  what  manner  of  love  the  Father 
hath  bestowed  upon  us,  thnt  we  should  be  called  the  son$ 
of  God."  Oh  !  my  brethren,  with  all  this  superior  light, 
with  the  new  and  loftier  claims  of  spiritual  adoption  upon 
our  souls,  how   few   Enochs  are  there  among  us  walking 

m* 


378  Enoch's  character  and  reward. 

with  God — thus  spiritually,  intelligently,  actively,  harmo- 
niously walking,  and  panting  for  a  purer  and  better  por- 
tion in  heaven. 

Finally,  The  death  of  a  Christian  **  who  walks  with 
God,"  is  more  glorious  than  the  translation  of  Enoch. 
It  develops  clearer  and  larger  views,  and  exercises  a 
brighter  faith  which  can  triumph  even  over  the  agonies 
of  dissolution.  Could  the  antediluvian  saint  have  gazed 
in  prospect  upon  a  Christian  death  scene ;  could  he  have 
entered  the  chamber  lighted  with  gospel  promises ;  could 
he  have  seen  hope  brightening  up  in  the  midst  of  weak- 
ness and  pain  ;  could  he  have  heard  such  blessed  words 
as  often  come  from  the  lips  of  the  dying ;  could  he  have 
seen  death  robbed  of  its  sting,  and  swallowed  up  in  the 
victory  of  the  joyous  and  ransomed  spirit, — could  Enoch 
have  known  all  this,  he  would  not  have  asked  for  the 
privilege  of  miraculous  translation  ;  he  would  not  have 
been  ambitious  for  a  seat  in  Elijah's  chariot ;  he  would 
not  have  sought  to  bring  back  the  cloud  on  which  Jesus 
went  up,  that  it  might  bear  him  also  into  heaven  ;  but  his 
prayer  would  rather  have  been,  "  Let  me  die  the  death  of 
the  righteous,  and  let  my  last  end  be  like  his." 


NOTE. 

This  was  one  of  two  sermons  which  Mr.  Homer  wrote  in  a  single 
week.     It  was  preached  at  South  Berwick,  Dec.  27,  1840. 


SERMON  XIV. 


THE   DUTY   OF   IMMEDIATE   OBEDIENCE  TO  THE  DI- 
VINE COMMANDS. 


I   MADE   HASTE,    AND   DELAYED   NOT   TO   KEEP   THY    CO>iMANDMENTS. 

Psalm  119  :  60. 

The  Psalm  from  which  the  text  is  taken,  is  peculiar 
both  in  its  structure  and  its  style.  It  was  probably 
written  near  the  close  of  David's  life,  and  comprises  a 
collection  of  choice  memoranda  from  his  experience. 
Particularly  is  it  rich  in  the  variety  of  its  commendations 
of  the  law  of  God,  as  the  object  of  his  love  and  his 
obedience.  There  is  no  connected  train  of  thought 
through  its  different  parts,  and  it  has  been  aptly  styled  a 
vase  of  jewels,  rather  than  a  golden  chain.  Yet  so 
significant  and  suggestive  are  its  expressions,  that  the 
mind  dwells  upon  each  isolated  clause,  and  reads  volumes 
in  each  recorded  meditation.  The  writer,  in  his  alpha- 
betical arrangement,  designed  not  so  much  a  display  of 
mechanical  skill,  as  a  mode  of  impressing  upon  the 
memory  each  one  of  these  living  oracles. 

Prominent  in  the  Psalmist's  experience  was  the  trait 
alluded  to  in  the  text.  No  proof  of  love  to  the  law  was 
superior  to  this — the  promptness  with  which  he  had  com- 
plied  with   its  requirements.     He    remembers   how   the 


380  IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE. 

beauty  and  fitness  of  God's  claim  upon  him  were  pre- 
sented to  his  mind  in  childhood,  and  how  unhesitatingly 
he  had  yielded  to  the  demand.  With  him  there  had  been 
no  lingering  among  the  pleasures  of  youth,  no  pushing 
aside  of  the  heavenly  visitant  to  the  opportunities  of  a 
riper  season.  And  now  in  his  old  age,  sitting  down  to 
enjoy  the  reminiscences  of  the  past,  to  collect  the  scat- 
tered fragments  of  his  spiritual  life,  this  bright  reflection 
starts  up  as  the  prelude  of  his  history,  and  sends  its  light 
through  the  whole  train  of  his  experiences  ; — "  I  made 
haste  and  delayed  not  to  keep  thy  commandments." 

I  speak  perhaps  in  the  hearing  of  some  who  can 
adopt  this  language  as  their  own.  It  awakens  a  refresh- 
ing sympathy  in  their  bosoms.  They  remember  with  joy 
their  early  consecration  to  God,  and  the  reflection  lights 
up  the  whole  memory  of  the  past.  I  speak  in  the  hear- 
ing of  others  who  obeyed  indeed,  but  only  after  long 
delay.  Day  after  day  they  neglected  the  call  of  the 
Spirit,  and  clung  to  the  world  amid  ten  thousand  induce- 
ments that  would  have  drawn  them  to  God.  And  now 
they  are  amazed  at  the  folly  and  madness  of  that  delay. 
They  see  how  fearful  was  the  risk  they  incurred,  how 
great  are  the  privileges  they  have  lost  forever ;  and  they 
want  words  to  describe  that  grace  which  can  pardon  such 
aggravated  iniquity.  They  would  give  worlds,  could 
they  begin  life  anew,  and  devote  that  wasted  portion  to 
the  services  of  piety.  I  speak  no  doubt  in  the  hearing 
of  a  number  who  are  now  procrastinating  sinners.  They 
know  their  duty,  but  they  defer  its  performance.  They 
yield  to  the  sluggish  tendencies  of  their  nature,  or  to 
some  sinfully-suggested  views,  or  to  some  delusive  prom- 
ise of  future  opportunities.  To  all  such  1  wish  to  hold 
up  the  wisdom  of  the  Psalmist's  example,  and  to  show 
that  God's  command  to  repentance  ought  to  be  obeyed 
immediately.     I  shall   consider  as  admitted  the  propriety 


IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE.  9&i 

of  repentance  at  some  time  or  other,  and  shall  confine 
my  remarks  to  the  importance  of  immedinfe  action. 

I.  I  remark  that  it  is  the  dictate  of  the  human  mind  to 
discharge  with  promptness  those  duties  to  which  any  one 
of  the  three  following  considerations  may  apply  :  the 
possibility  of  performing  the  duty  now,  the  advantages  of 
performing  it  noia,  the  uncertainty  of  ever  finding  another 
opportunity  of  performing  it. 

First,  The  immediate  performance  of  the  duty  should 
be  seen  by  the  mind  to  be  possible.  There  are  some 
duties  which  from  their  very  nature  require  delay.  They 
have  to  be  looked  at  prospectively  ;  and  with  regard  to 
them,  there  can  be  no  sense  of  present  obligation. 
There  are  some  other  duties  which  require  long  medita- 
tion to  satisfy  the  mind  of  their  importance,  and  a  long 
course  of  preparation  before  it  is  possible  to  perform 
them.  In  such  cases  the  disposition  to  promptness  is 
manifested  by  immediately  directing  the  mind  to  the 
subject,  and  immediately  beginning  to  prepare  for  the 
work.  But  when  the  soul  clearly  perceives  the  duty  of 
the  present  time  and  the  possibility  of  its  immediate  per- 
formance, that  consideration  alone  may  be  sufficient  to 
excite  it  to  action.  Apart  from  the  calculation  of  bene- 
fits to  be  secured,  apart  from  the  prospect  of  future 
hinderance,  it  is  the  instinctive  dictate  of  the  human  mind 
in  its  best  state  to  do  the  duty  now.  There  is  a  feeling 
of  restlessness  natural  to  man  while  such  a  possible  work 
is  left  unexecuted.  There  is  a  feeling  of  self-abasement 
and  dissatisfaction  so  long  as  a  single  account  remains 
uncanceled.  The  mere  sense  of  present  duty  calls  for 
action  with  an  immediateness  that  knows  no  delay.  And 
that  is  the  best  and  the  wisest  man  who  yields  to  these 
demands  the  instant  they  are  admitted  by  the  conscience, 
even  though  there  is  no  interest  to  allure,  and  no  danger 
to  impel  him  to  obedience. 


382  IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE. 

Secondly,  This  disposition  to  promptness  is  greatly 
stimulated  by  the  prospect  of  peculiar  advantages  which 
may  depend  upon  it. 

Sometimes  the  advantages  relate  to  the  duty,  and  not 
at  all  to  the  time  of  its  performance.  They  can  be 
secured  as  well  by  future  as  by  immediate  action.  But 
when  advantages  may  be  obtained  to-day,  and  if  neglect- 
ed now  may  be  lost  forever,  the  dictate  of  wisdom  is  to 
improve  the  present  moment.  Thus  the  tradesman, 
though  his  note  becomes  due  at  some  future  period,  will 
often  be  at  great  pains  to  forestall  his  payments,  that  he 
may  prevent  the  accumulation  of  interest,  and  secure 
confidence  and  respect  for  his  habits  of  business.  The 
general  who  finds  a  breach  in  the  walls,  and  the  garrison 
asleep,  although  he  might  make  the  assault  to-morrow 
with  success,  urges  his  troops  to  an  immediate  onset ; 
because  he  knows  that  victory  will  be  easier  before  the 
guards  wake  up  and  the  breach  is  filled.  The  physician 
may  be  confident  that  his  patient  will  recover  if  attend- 
ance be  postponed  a  few  hours,  yet,  if  a  little  delay  will 
protract  the  process  of  cure,  and  leave  the  remnants  of 
disease  to  be  struggled  with  through  life,  he  makes  haste 
to  the  bedside,  and  administers  the  restorative  the  instant 
it  can  be  procured.  The  dispenser  of  charity  may  be- 
lieve that  life  can  be  sustained  still  longer  amid  the  pelt- 
ings  of  cold  and  the  craving  of  hunger,  yet,  because  he 
knows  that  another  day  of  misery  is  added  by  his  tardi- 
ness, and  that  day  might  be  made  one  of  joy  to  the 
famishing  and  shelterless  circle,  he  hastens  this  moment 
to  the  scene  of  suflTering  with  the  bounty  in  his  hand. 
And  that  man  is  always  ridiculed  who  comes  up  to  the 
work,  successfully  it  may  be,  but  not  till  after  its  harvest 
season  is  over,  and  its  first  fruits  have  lost  their  freshness 
to  the  taste. 

Thirdly,  There  is  a  still  greater  incentive  to  immediate 


IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE. 

action,  if  it  be  probable  that  the  present  is  the  only  oppor- 
tunity for  acting  at  all.  If  it  were  possible  to  resist  the 
present  call  of  conscience,  or  the  demands  of  interest, 
where  is  the  man  who  would  delay  to  act  with  the  pros- 
pect of  failure  staring  him  in  the  face  ?  If  the  debtor 
feels  insecure  as  to  the  permanence  of  his  abilities,  he 
makes  no  delay  in  his  payments,  lest  to-morrow  he  go 
home  with  ruined  credit  and  blasted  reputation.  If  there 
is  a  dying  man  to  be  brought  back  to  life,  there  is  hurry 
in  the  physician's  step.  When  the  prospect  is  that  the 
poor  may  perish  if  exposed  to  the  inclemency  of  another 
night,  no  storm  can  keep  back  the  charitable  visitant. 
Here  is  the  greatest  incentive  to  human  action — the  des- 
pair of  future  opportunities.  How  it  nerves  the  arm  to- 
day, to  think  that  it  may  be  nerveless  to-morrow.  How 
it  quickens  the  step  in  pursuit  of  an  object,  to  imagine 
that  hereafter  the  path  may  be  obstructed,  or  the  power  of 
pursuing  it  lost,  or  the  object  itself  removed  beyond  the 
reach.  **  Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow,"  is  the  dictate 
of  human  as  well  as  divine  wisdom  ;  and  if  the  man  were 
deprived  of  every  other  motive,  the  uncertainty  of  the 
future  alone  would  be  enough  to  impel  him,  with  anxious 
brow,  with  agitated  and  nervous  energy,  with  the  com- 
bined powers  of  the  whole  man,  to  seize  the  present  in- 
stant for  the  discharge  of  its  great  duties. 

Suppose  now  a  duty  in  which  all  these  circumstances 
were  combined  ;  suppose  the  individual  were  urged  on  by 
the  pressure  of  present  obligation  ever  bearing  him  down 
with  its  iron  weight,  and  admitting  no  relief  but  from  in- 
stant action  ;  suppose,  moreover,  that  as  he  tried  to  shake 
off  that  burden,  there  should  come  up  before  him  the 
array  of  joys  and  privileges  to  be  secured  by  an  imme- 
diate movement,  and  to  be  lost  forever,  if  such  a  move- 
ment were  not  made  ;  and  suppose,  as  he  turned  away 
from  the  spectacle  in  hope  of  discovering  some   "  loop- 


384  IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE. 

hole  of  retreat,"  there  should  start  upon  his  vision  the 
prospect  of  despair  for  the  future,  and  the  thought  of  the 
last  opportunity  gone  forever  should  haunt  him  ; — what 
would  be  thought  of  a  man  so  importuned  by  circum- 
stances, so  hedged  in  by  motives,  if  he  should  still  break 
away  from  every  influence,  and  rush  on  in  his  career  of 
neglect.  But  just  such  is  the  condition  of  the  delaying 
sinner  ;  for  I  propose  to  show, 

II.  That  all  these  three  considerations  unite  in  the 
highest  possible  degree  in  the  repentance  he  is  urged  to 
perform  :  first,  it  is  a  duty  which  can  be  done  now  ;  sec- 
ondly, the  highest  advantages  in  the  universe  depend  upon 
its  immediate  performance  ;  and  thirdly,  there  is  no  secu- 
rity in  delay. 

First,  The  sinner  cannot  resist  the  pressure  of  present 
obligation  by  any  idea  of  the  absolute  impossibility  of 
immediate  repentance.  On  the  contrary,  all  the  circum- 
stances connected  with  the  duty  show  that  it  can  be  done 
now  ;  and  nothing  but  the  desperate  depravity  of  the 
heart,  and  the  want  of  a  willing  mind,  prevents  its  imme- 
diate performance. 

One  of  the  circumstances  which  prove  this,  is  the  na- 
ture of  the  divine  command,  whether  found  in  the  word 
of  God  or  in  our  own  consciences.  The  direction  of  our 
Saviour  is  to  all,  without  distinction,  sinners  as  well  as 
Christians — '*  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all 
thy  heart."  It  is  not  commanded  to  love  him  to-morrow; 
it  is  not  commanded  to  begin  a  course  of  preparation 
which  may  result  at  some  future  time  in  compliance  ;  but 
•*  thou  shalt  love  ;  "  and  the  command  is  echoed  by  the 
conscience  of  the  sinner  restless  in  his  sense  of  disobe- 
dience, "  thou  shalt  love."  To  him  that  is  at  ease  in  his 
sins,  and  has  not  God  in  all  his  thoughts,  there  comes  with 
still  more  appropriateness  the  mandate — "  Repent ;  "  and 
the  present  moment,   and  every  moment  claims  this  duty 


IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE.  988 

as  its  own,  and  urges  the  sinner  to  immediate  action. 
The  sense  of  obligation  respects  the  present,  and  not  at 
all  the  future.  What  is  to  be  hereafter  is  not  yet  obliga- 
tory. And  the  sinner  who  says,  I  will  repent  to-morrow, 
neither  obeys  the  command  of  Scripture,  nor  satisfies  the 
claim  of  conscience,  but  only  makes  an  abortive  effort,  by 
a  cheat,  to  rid  himself  of  both.  Now,  should  we  believe 
that  God  commands  in  this  urgent  manner  what  the  sin- 
ner can  in  no  way  perform  1  That  he  drives  him  on  by 
the  voice  from  above,  and  the  voice  from  conscience,  to 
what  is  in  every  sense  an  impossibility?  That  he  dooms 
him  to  the  frowns  of  Heaven,  and  the  lashings  of  remorse, 
when  he  knows  that  the  sinner  is  absolutely  and  literally 
unable  to  do  otherwise  than  as  he  does  ?  We  call  that 
king  a  tyrant  who  commands  us  this  instant  to  raise  a 
burden  which  he  knows  we  cannot  lift.  And  what  should 
be  said  of  him  who  would  lay  a  tax  on  the  soul  too  griev- 
ous to  be  borne  ;  a  yoke  which,  so  far  from  being  easy,  a 
burden  which,  so  far  from  being  light,  are  intolerable  and 
every  way  impossible  to  be  endured  ?  There  is  nothing 
like  this  in  the  government  of  Heaven.  Just  and  true  art 
thou,  O  God,  in  all  thy  words  and  in  all  thy  works. 

Another  circumstance  which  shows  the  possibility  of 
immediate  repentance  is  found  in  the  very  nature  of  the 
duty.  It  is  not  one  which  finds  no  corresponding  emo- 
tions in  the  soul  of  man.  There  is  a  sense  of  fitness 
within  him  which  it  meets.  There  is  a  panting  after  eleva- 
tion which  it  gratifies.  There  is  an  aching  void  which  it 
fills.  We  come  to  you  who  love  the  world  with  an  unsat- 
isfying, self-loathing  fondness,  and  we  point  you  to  an  ob- 
ject worthy  of  your  highest  capacities  for  affection.  We 
come  to  you  who  are  exhausted  and  worn  out  in  sin,  and 
we  invite  you  to  a  service  which  can  renew  your  strength, 
and  remove  your  faintness  and  fatigue.  The  being  whom 
we  commend  to  your  affection,  is  not  one  whom  it  is  hard 
33 


386  IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE. 

to  love,  unless  the  sinful  will  makes  it  hard.  He  is  a  be- 
ing who  loves  you.  He  is  not  one  that  has  withdrawn 
from  your  knowledge,  and  quite  veiled  himself  in  the  ma- 
jesty of  his  inscrutable  perfections.  You  can  see  him 
wherever  you  go — in  the  mountain  or  the  stream,  in  the 
earth  or  the  sky. 

Awake,  asleep,  at  home,  abroad, 
You  are  surrounded  still  with  God. 

Nor  has  he  merely  hung  himself  up  in  his  universe  like 
a  picture  to  be  gazed  at  and  admired.  To  each  one  of 
you  he  comes  nigh  with  proofs  of  his  personal  interest 
and  affection.  He  is  your  father.  Day  by  day  has  he 
watched  over  you  with  a  tenderness  that  has  not  ceased 
even  in  your  ingratitude.  A  mother  may  forget  the  child 
of  her  bosom,  but  God  never  forgets  his  erring,  ungrate- 
ful offspring.  Nor  is  this  all.  He  contemplates  your 
moral  condition  and  prospects  with  unfeigned  sorrow. 
Not  willing  that  any  should  perish,  he  has  multiplied  mo- 
tive upon  motive  for  leading  you  to  repentance.  He  has 
unveiled  the  glory  of  his  character,  to  see  if  he  could  not 
attract  your  admiring  gaze.  He  has  sacrificed  his  Son, 
to  make  known  to  you  the  strugglings  of  his  omnipotent 
Spirit.  Sometimes  he  has  opened  to  you  the  terrific  gates 
of  wo,  and  you  have  heard  the  eternal  sighing  from  which 
he  would  redeem  you.  And  now  this  hour  he  comes 
once  more  with  his  entreaties  of  love — "  How  shall  I  give 
thee  up,  Ephraim  ?  How  shall  I  deliver  thee,  Israel  1 
How  shall  I  make  thee  as  Admah  ?  How  shall  I  set  thee 
as  Zeboim  ?  " 

We  point  you  to  the  character  of  Christ,  the  one  alto- 
gether lovely.  If  there  can  be  an  object  commending  it- 
self to  the  affectionate  susceptibilities  of  your  nature,  you 
find  it  in  the  amiable  and  lovely  Son  of  God.  How  fcndly 
you  would  have  admired  such  a  child  or  such  a  brother  ; 
but  the  relation  he  sustains   to  you  is  more  intimate  and 


IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE. 

endearing.  He  is  your  Redeemer.  Each  step  he  took  in 
his  pilgrimage,  the  thought  of  you  went  with  him.  You 
accompanied  him  as  he  retired  to  the  garden  in  the  night 
of  his  agony,  you  stood  by  his  side  when  the  earth  quaked 
in  the  spiritual  darkness  of  the  sufferer.  The  arms  which 
were  stretched  out  upon  the  cross  were  meant  to  bring 
you  into  the  embrace  of  his  redemption,  and  the  sundered 
bands  of  the  grave  brought  to  you  the  liberty  of  a  glori- 
ous resurrection.  In  tliose  last  words  to  his  chosen  on 
the  morning  of  his  ascension,  his  eye  gathered  time  and 
space  within  the  sphere  of  its  vision,  and  fixed  its  serene 
gaze  on  every  creature.  And  can  you  talk  without  self- 
reproach  of  an  entire  and  absolute  want  of  power  to  love 
him  in  his  purity,  when  he  deigned  to  love  you  in  your 
vileness. 

Nor  is  the  service  to  which  the  duty  of  repentance  calls 
you  an  unreasonable  service.  You  are  not  called  on  to 
commence  a  pilgrimage  requiring  great  forethought  and 
preparation.  You  are  not  called  to  a  perpetual  seclusion 
from  the  world,  before  which  you  must  '*  go  and  bid  them 
farewell  that  are  in  the  house."  You  have  spent  years  in 
slighting  the  infinite  love  of  God,  and  you  are  called  upon 
to  exercise  penitence  in  view  of  the  neglect.  You  have 
been  living  with  low  aims,  and  you  are  now  called  to  the 
dignity  of  exalted  and  noble  purposes  of  action.  There 
is  a  glory  in  living  for  God  and  for  the  eternal  destinies 
of  the  soul,  which  is  worthy  of  your  nature.  And  the 
exchange  you  are  commanded  to  make,  is  one  that  com- 
mends itself  to  the  instinctive  and  instantaneous  judgment 
of  every  soul  that  will  pause  in  its  career  of  guilt  and 
think. 

Here  then  is  the  work  of  repentance.  Begin  to  love 
God  and  to  serve  him.  God  is  before  you  in  all  his  per- 
fection— does  it  require  a  long  while  for  you  to  determine 
whether  he  is  worthy  of  your  love?     Must  you  have  time 


388  IMMEDIATE  REPENTANCE. 

to  count  the  cost  before  you  can  enter  upon  his  service  ? 
Be  not  deceived.  God  is  as  lovely  now  as  he  ever  will 
be,  and  his  service  is  as  good  and  reasonable  a  service. 
There  can  be  no  intermediate  state  between  sin  and  holi- 
ness, no  moral  purgatory  where  you  may  sit  down  to  un- 
dergo some  process  of  purification,  or  receive  some  mi- 
raculous light  into  your  soul.  *•  He  that  is  not  for  God 
is  against  him."  The  claims  of  this  love  and  this  service 
will  wait  for  no  such  tardy  workmen,  but  must  pass  them 
by  as  still  unfruitful  and  disobedient. 

Another  circumstance  which  proves  not  only  that  the 
sinner  can  but  may  repent,  is  the  divine  aid  which  may 
be  furnished  him  in  the  work.  The  sinner  never  will 
avail  himself  of  his  natural  ability  without  divine  aid. 
Notwithstanding  the  reasonableness  of  the  claims  of  God, 
men  have  an  obstinacy  and  a  perverseness  of  will  which 
prevent  their  yielding.  God  often  sends  his  Holy  Spirit 
to  counteract  this  opposing  influence ;  to  make  the  truth 
a  more  vivid  reality  to  the  eye  of  the  soul  ;  to  fix  the  gaze 
upon  it  with  an  intenseness  that  makes  it  hard  for  the 
sinner  to  break  away  from  the  attraction.  "  Can  the 
Ethiopian  change  his  skin,  or  the  leopard  his  spots?"  but, 
blessed  be  God,  the  sinner  may  hope  for  a  divine  co- 
worker, and  he  need  not  despair.  My  impenitent  friend, 
are  you  this  moment  listening  with  some  degree  of  ear- 
nestness to  this  presentation  of  your  duty — the  Holy  Spirit 
is  directing  your  soul  to  the  truth.  Are  you  fixing  your 
gaze  on  the  lovely  character  of  Jehovah — Jehovah  himself 
is  unveiling  his  hitherto  hidden  glories  to  your  view. 
Will  you  not  now  resolve  to  be  the  Lord's?  An  almighty 
influence  may  ''  work  in  you  both  to  will  and  to  do  of  his 
good  pleasure."  Without  delay,  then,  **  work  out  your 
own  salvation  with  fear  and  trembling." 

Secondly,  The  advantages  secured  by  repentance  at 
the  present  time,  are  lost  if  the  work  is  delayed  to  a  future 


IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE. 

season.  Even  if  the  duty  be  subsequently  performed,  it 
cannot  be  in  circumstances  so  favorable  as  the  present. 
Each  fleeting  moment  carries  with  it  opportunities  which 
depart  never  more  to  return.  And  if  it  could  be  revealed 
that  salvation  in  the  end  was  sure,  still  he  who  could 
seize  the  passing  instant  to  commence  a  life  of  holiness, 
would  be  the  wisest  man,  because  by  delaying  present 
duty  he  would  lose  inestimable  benefits. 

One  of  these  benefits  is  implied  in  the  very  nature  of 
the  work  of  repentance.  The  sinner  is  now  in  a  state  of 
guilt,  comfortless,  remorseful  guilt.  He  may  pretend  to 
be  absorbed  in  the  vanities  of  the  world  ;  he  may  affect 
gaiety  amid  the  threatenings  of  God's  law;  but  he  knows, 
and  in  his  serious  moments  he  will  confess,  that  he  is  not 
happy.  He  carries  about  within  him  an  enemy  that  is 
perpetually  warring  with  his  peace.  Amid  the  whirl  of 
passion  he  hears  a  voice  of  terror.  In  the  solitary  night 
of  the  soul  he  is  scared  by  hideous  shapes.  All  his  life- 
time he  is  in  bondage.  But  repentance  instantly  breaks 
the  fetters  which  bind  him,  chases  away  the  spectres  of 
his  darkness,  and  the  mild  accents  of  a  Father  strike 
music  upon  his  ear — My  child,  thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee. 
If  he  put  off  the  work,  though  it  be  only  for  a  day,  or  a 
week,  or  a  year,  all  the  intervening  time  he  must  continue 
the  victim  of  that  terror  and  that  servitude.  When  he 
looks  up  to  God,  there  meets  him  a  frown  of  wrath,  rather 
than  a  smile  of  love.  When  he  looks  into  his  soul,  there 
is  not  a  ray  of  purity  to  relieve  the  prospect  of  total  cor- 
ruption. All  this  while,  the  burden  is  accumulating. 
All  this  while,  the  crucifixion  of  the  Son  of  God  goes  on 
afresh.  Oh  !  my  friends,  is  it  a  light  thing  to  be  living 
under  the  anger  of  the  Almighty,  though  it  be  but  for  a 
day?  Is  it  a  light  thing  to  persist  in  wronging  a  father 
of  your  affections,  though  it  be  but  another  week?  Is  it 
a  light  thing  to  continue  to  trample  under  foot  the  blood 
3:J  * 


390  IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE. 

of  the  covenant,  though  you  may  at  some  future  period 
receive  that  offended  one  to  your  embrace,  and  wash  in 
that  fountain  for  uncleanness. 

Another  of  these  advantages  is  the  immediate  com- 
mencement of  the  work  of  sanctification  in  the  soul. 
This  is  not  the  work  of  a  day  or  a  year,  but  of  a  whole 
life.  Ask  the  aged  Christian,  why  he  would  wish  a  re- 
newal of  his  youth,  and  a  recommencement  of  his  pil- 
grimage, and  he  will  tell  you,  it  is  because  he  would  com- 
plete the  process  of  maturing  his  Christian  character,  and 
go  home  to  God  *'  like  a  shock  of  corn  fully  ripe  in  its 
season."  And  not  only  does  the  nature  of  the  work  ren- 
der it  one  of  long-protracted  and  strenuous  exertion,  but 
every  moment  of  delay  aggravates  the  difficulty  of  accom- 
plishment. Perseverance  in  siu  tends  to  deepen  the  cor- 
ruption of  our  nature.  The  longer  the  indulgence,  the 
harder  is  it  to  break  up  completely  and  radically  the  habit 
of  transgression,  and  the  weaker  is  the  aid  of  those  natu- 
ral principles  of  good  which  have  been  shattered  and 
worn  out  by  perpetual  opposition.  The  Christian  life  is 
a  warfare,  not  only  requiring  the  longest  possible  cam- 
paign for  its  victorious  issue,  but  dependent  on  an  early 
beginning  for  the  keenness  of  its  weapons,  and  the  ease 
with  which  the  battle  may  be  won.  My  friend,  even  if 
you  were  sure  of  your  final  salvation,  how  much  better  to 
begin  now  the  work  of  self-discipline,  rather  than  wait  for 
the  weakness  of  disease  and  the  decrepitude  of  dotage, 
and  then  go  home  to  heaven  but  a  spiritual  babe,  hardly 
fit  for  the  Master's  service. 

Another  of  these  benefits  is  the  immediate  chano-e  in 
the  influence  exerted  upon  others.  *'  One  sinner  destroy- 
eth  much  good."  We  are  creatures  of  example.  No  one 
can  estimate  the  immensity  of  the  good  or  the  evil  he  may 
do  his  fellow-men.  A  single  individual,  obscure  and 
weak,  has  power  over  a  multitude  that  no  man  can  num- 


IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE.  391 

ber  ;  and  power  that  is  eternal.  Each  moment  of  our 
existence  may  be  fraught  with  the  destinies  of  thousands 
whom  we  have  never  seen.  I  know  of  a  Christian,  in  a 
comparatively  humble  walk  in  life,  who  never  dreamed  of 
acting  beyond  the  narrow  sphere  which  God  seemed  to 
have  appointed  her  ;  but  when  she  died,  a  voice  went 
forth  from  her  grave  which  was  heard  all  over  the  moun- 
tains and  vallies  of  her  native  land,  and  crossed  the  ocean 
to  shed  the  '•  undecaying  sunset "  of  her  example  upon 
the  old  world,  and  make  multitudes  of  every  tongue  "  rise 
up  to  call  her  blessed."  And  what  is  true  of  the  power 
of  religious  influence,  is  truer  still  of  the  influence  of 
sin  ;  because  the  depravity  of  man  is  fitted  to  receive  and 
cherish  the  unholy  impression.  If  the  mysteries  of  this 
great  subject  were  unfolded  to  our  view,  and  we  could 
see  the  separate  links  in  this  invisible  chain,  what  truths 
would  it  not  disclose  of  the  power  of  the  weakest.  The 
pollution  that  defiles  a  family  or  a  neighborhood  or  a  na- 
tion, might  be  traced  back  to  a  solitary  thought  in  the 
bosom  of  some  obscure  individual  who  lived  ages  and 
ages  ago.  But  that  was  no  solitary  thought.  Though  it 
did  not  express  itself  audibly  in  words  ;  it  spoke  forth  in 
the  louder  language  of  the  eye  or  the  life,  and  waked  into 
being  kindred  thoughts  in  the  breasts  of  others,  to  go  on 
to  their  work  of  devastation  and  death  forever.  But,  my 
friends,  each  one  of  you  may  be  destined  to  a  work  for 
God,  as  distinguished  as  you  are  now  performing  for  sin 
and  wo.  If  your  name  is  not  known,  your  character  will 
be  felt.  The  secret  aspirations  you  put  up  in  the  depths 
of  your  soul  after  holiness  and  communion  with  God,  may 
be  the  first  link  in  a  golden  chain  that  connects  you  with 
the  ends  of  the  earth.  Acres  and  acres  hence,  some  fellow 
saint  on  the  plains  of  heaven  may  trace  back  his  own 
conversion  to  the  impulse  you  started  by  this  day's  re- 
pentance, and    may  point  you   to  a  multitude  whom  him- 


392  IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE. 

self  has  called  to  share  your  blessedness.  The  man  who 
repents,  if  it  may  be,  on  his  death-bed,  after  a  long  life 
of  disobedience  to  God,  has  to  go  to  heaven  with  the 
reminiscence  of  days  and  years,  each  moment  of  which 
has  perhaps  been  fitting  souls  as  precious  as  his  own  for 
destruction  ;  and  the  evil  of  his  life  is  living  on  in  its  un- 
deviating  career  of  mischief,  while  he  is  praising  God 
among  the  redeemed.  In  this  view,  how  important,  my 
friends,  is  immediate  activity.  If  you  do  hope  for  future 
opportunities  as  good  for  yourself,  you  cannot  be  so 
selfish  as  to  care  nothing  for  others  whom  your  present 
course  may  ruin.  Remember  that  the  evil  you  may  do, 
if  you  continue  longer  in  sin,  you  can  never  undo,  even 
though  you  hereafter  attain  the  highest  summit  of  perfec- 
tion on  earth,  and  the  ofiice  of  an  archangel  in  heaven. 
Cease  then  this  murderous  career.  This  instant  begin 
the  service  of  God,  and  give  the  first  impulse  to  a  train 
of  influences  which  may  go  on  and  gather  an  ever  in- 
creasing light  through  the  ages  of  a  blessed  eternity. 

Thirdly,  If  the  duty  of  repentance  is  neglected  now, 
there  is  reason  to  fear  that  it  will  never  be  performed.  If 
the  advantages  of  the  present  opportunity  are  not  heeded, 
how  much  less  will  be  noticed  the  inferior  advantages  of 
the  future.  You  who  defer  the  work  of  repentance  can 
have  no  well-grounded  expectation  of  another  period  like 
this;  but  you  perhaps  imagine  that  the  sudden  providence 
of  God  may  arrest  your  downward  progress,  or  that  the 
immediate  prospect  of  eternity  in  sickness  or  old  age 
may  alarm  you  into  religion.  I  need  not  reply  by  allud- 
ing to  the  well  known  uncertainty  of  your  existence 
beyond  the  present  moment.  But  how  do  you  know  that 
the  providence  you  are  anticipating  may  not  deprive  you 
of  your  reason  ?  What  hope  can  you  cherish  that  you 
can  terminate  aright,  on  the  tossings  of  your  death-bed, 
the  struggle   which   now  in  the  vigor  of  all  your  powers 


IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE.  393 

you  terminate  wrong  ?  And  old  age — interesting  old 
age — amiable  old  age — trust  it  not,  trust  it  not  in  its 
decay  and  its  dimness.  You  have  seen  the  hoary-headed 
sinner  full  of  self-gratulation  for  the  past,  full  of  hope  for 
the  future.  Not  a  cloud  dimmed  the  brightness  of  his 
reminiscences,  not  a  cloud  hung  over  his  eternal  pros- 
pects. Deluded  old  man  !  he  had  passed  his  fourscore 
years  in  empty  pleasures,  and  now  he  had  forgotten  their 
utter  emptiness.  He  had  been  without  God  in  the  world, 
but  he  did  not  remember  his  solitariness,  lie  was  tottering 
along  with  the  phantom  of  an  inane  fancy  in  his  embrace, 
and  leaning  on  a  staiF  that  could  not  support  him.  Oh  ! 
if  there  be  a  spectacle  in  the  universe  for  one  to  weep 
over  with  tears  that  can  bring  no  relief,  it  will  be  such  as 
you,  sinner,  will  afford,  if  you  delay  the  work  of  this  hour 
until  you  are  too  old  to  appreciate  its  claims. 

But  aside  from  the  uncertainty  of  life,  the  distraction 
of  sickness,  the  blindness  of  dotage,  there  is  another 
circumstance  which  increases  the  improbability  of  your 
future  repentance.  It  is  the  accumulation  of  power 
which  every  habit  of  sin  is  acquiring,  the  longer  it  is 
indulged.  Conscience  is  an  easily  offended  monitor,  and 
the  reproof  that  is  slighted  to-day  is  more  feebly  uttered 
to-morrow,  and  the  third  day  its  whispers  may  be  too  low 
to  wake  up  the  lethargy  of  the  soul.  The  sins  which  you 
cling  to  now,  will  cling  to  you  hereafter,  and  the  work 
which  early  attended  to,  would  have  been  comparatively 
like  the  putting  off  of  a  garment,  will  become  at  length 
like  the  plucking  out  of  a  right  eye,  or  the  cutting  off  of 
a  right  hand.  God's  Spirit  will  come  less  frequently  to 
the  heart  that  is  only  hardened  by  his  influences,  and 
which  at  every  slighted  visit  is  the  more  strengthened  to 
resist  his  future  solicitations.  Do  not  expect  that  amid 
all  these  discouraging  circumstances,  after  this  protracted 
career  of  guilt,  a  divine  hand  will   be  upon  you  to  draw 


394  IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE. 

you  back  to  the  commencement  of  your  journey  ;  to 
remove  at  once  the  fixedness  of  your  sin.  The  Spirit  of 
God,  when  it  acts  at  all,  operates  in  harmony  with  your 
own  agency.  **  It  doth  persuade"  you,  while  you  can  lis- 
ten and  ponder  and  understand.  It  presents  truth  to  the 
eye,  and  it  fixes  the  eye  upon  it.  The  more  dimmed  has 
become  the  vision  by  sinful  indulgence,  the  more  difficult 
will  be  the  conversion  by  the  truth.  Ah  !  is  there  not 
such  a  thing  as  a  total  blindness  even  in  this  life,  which 
no  divine  influence  will  cure.-  The  Spirit  is  kind  and 
compassionate  ;  it  takes  a  long  while  to  grieve  him  utter- 
ly away  ;  but  he  will  not  strive  forever.  When  the  soul, 
as  it  were,  immures  itself  in  dungeon  walls,  he  will  find 
some  crevice  to  let  in  the  light ;  but  when  every  aperture 
is  closed,  and  the  doors  are  barred  and  bolted  with  a 
strength  that  yields  to  no  knocking,  then  sadly,  indeed, 
but  surely  the  Spirit  takes  his  eternal  flight.  "  There  is 
a  sin  unto  death."  In  every  man's  destination  there  is  a 
limit  beyond  which  if  he  go,  he  is  lost  forever.  Could 
you  visit  the  abodes  of  despair,  many  a  wretched  one 
could  point  you  to  the  moment  in  his  history  when  for 
the  last  time  he  rejected  the  proflfered  aid,  and  sealed  his 
own  doom.  Oh  !  my  hearers,  who  of  you  has  reached 
this  critical  period  ?  Mighty  in  sin,  mighty  in  strength 
to  cope  with  the  Mightiest  of  all,  with  eyes  that  can 
hardly  see;  with  ears  that  can  hardly  hear;  with  a  heart 
that  can  hardly  feel.  Yet  to-day,  after  so  long  a  time, 
God  comes  to  thee  with  a  gentle  voice.  Hear  you  not 
the  tenderness  of  his  invitation  as  it  falls  upon  your  well 
nigh  paralyzed  sense  ?  See  you  not  the  beauty  of  his 
truth,  as  he  holds  it  up  to  your  almost  blinded  vision  ? 
Do  not  the  repentings  well  nigh  "  kindle  together,"  even 
in  your  sluggish,  death-stricken  spirit  ?  If  you  would 
rouse  yourself  to  listen  and  to  gaze,  to  love  and  to  obey, 
this  last   mission   mi^ht   prove  your    spiritual   birth-day. 


IMMEDIATE    REPENTANCE.  395 

But  if  you  still  scorn  and  reject,  you  may  not  see  him 
again  till  he  is  "  laughing  at  your  calamity  ;  "  you  may  not 
hear  him,  till  the  sentence  already  determined  is  pro- 
nounced in  your  ear. 

I  have  thus  set  before  you,  my  friends,  the  urgent 
claims  of  immediate  repentance.  I  see  not  that  as  rational 
beings,  you  have  any  way  of  escape.  In  the  former  part 
of  the  discourse  you  saw  how  promptly  you  would  have 
acted  in  worldly  concerns  which  called  for  your  immediate 
exertion  ;  and  now  you  see  that  the  call  of  religious  duty 
is  infinitely  louder  and  more  pressing.  Oh!  be  not  in- 
consistent. Deny  not  to  the  famishing  soul  that  suste- 
nance you  bestow  on  the  body.  Take  not  from  God  the 
moments  you  give  to  man.  Now  you  are  able,  abuse  not 
the  precious  talent.  Now  rich  is  the  prize  held  out  to 
you,  trample  not  the  jewel  beneath  your  feet.  Shall  I  not 
add,  now  or  never  I  for  who  knows  but  the  dark  uncer- 
tainty of  the  future  to  which  you  leave  yourselves  may 
prove  certain  and  eternal  darkess  to  your  souls?  The 
considerations  here  presented  apply  to  the  minutest  divi- 
sions of  time.  You  are  not  called  upon  to  repent  this 
year,  this  day,  this  hour,  but  this  moment.  Delay  not  an 
instant.  Set  not  up  points  in  the  immediate  future  for 
action  ;  but  now  choose,  resolve,  do.  Now  say  in  your 
heart,  I  will  be  the  Lord's,  and  now  be  the  Lord's. 


NOTE. 

The  preceding  discourse  was  the  second  which  Mr.  Homer  ever 
wrote,  and  was  preached  at  Sherburne,  Mass.,  in  the  afternoon  of 
the  first  Sabbath  on  which  he  ever  occupied  the  pulpit.  •'  On  that 
afternoon,"  as  he  writes  to  a  friend,  **I  preached  on  immediate  re- 
pentance, my  plainest  and  homeliest  sermon."  It  was  afterwards 
preached  at  Boston,  Salem-street  church  ;  at  Durham,  N.  H  ;  and 
at  South  Berwick,  May  3,  1840, 


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9May'49Sl 


I    SEP  2  4  1981 


YB  30988 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


